A Christmas Miracle
by Tempestt
Summary: A vision of the demon sends the boys back to Lawrence, where they find a haunted hotel with a doorway that sucks them into another time. Can they find their way back or will history be changed forever?
1. Chapter 1

This is my gift to **Hope Calaris **as part of the SFTCOL(AR)S secret Santa exchange. She had two separate prompts.

Sam's visions return in S3 sending them to Lawrence, where they spend Christmas with Missouri.  
The boys spend Christmas in a motel, which turns out to be haunted by a whole bunch of ghosts because something horrible happened there on Christmas in the past.

I did a little research on the internet and low and behold if there isn't an actual haunted hotel in Lawrence. With a Hellgate on the fifth floor no less. Seriously, that's what the website said. Okay, they may have said doorway to another dimension. They say ta-may-to, I say to-ma-to. Either way, fun times!

I hope you don't mind Hope, but I've squished both prompts together. This story will be filled with Hellgates, time travel, cowboys, vampires and an honest to goodness Christmas Miracle. All that together equals a rollicking good time, Winchester style!

Happy Holidays everyone!!

Disclaimer: I do not own or make a profit from Supernatural.

**A Christmas Miracle**

Chapter One

_The fire was spreading, living and breathing around him. The heat of it boiled his skin, searing his bones down to the marrow. The thick acrid smoke smelled like the breath of a thousand Hell Hounds. Men, women and children were pinned to the ceiling, their mouths wrenched open in endless screams. Their limbs were splayed apart, the edges of their flesh charring as the flames licked them. They struggled uselessly. The power holding them above his head was limitless. _

_Or was it him suspended over their heads?_

_He looked down at all the broken bodies beneath him, their fleshed burned off until only blackened bones remained. He struggled to free himself, but he couldn't feel his arms and legs. He heard laughter over the crackling of flames and he squint his eyes to see through the smoke._

_Between the weaving yellow and orange flames he could see a portrait of a man surrounded by five little girls in snowy dresses. The man was dour looking and the girls' expressions were miserable. Beneath the painting was a brass plaque that he struggled to read. The flames danced in front of his eyes and his curses turned to screams._

_A man rose up in front of him, a wide-brimmed hat slung low over his face. The fire flamed brightly behind him, casting the man in shadows. He tilted his head, pushing his cowboy hat back on his brow to laugh. Out of the shadows__he saw the flashing of yellow eyes, and heard a choir of tortured souls._

Sam jerked upright in bed, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his heart pounding. In the next bed, Dean stirred, but didn't awaken. Sam sat hunched over in the bed. The only thing he could concentrate on was the pounding of blood in his ears and the harsh rasping of his breath.

The vision burnt its way behind his eyes until no matter where he looked all he saw was fire. He groaned, balancing his arms on his bent knees and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He forced himself to breath easily, to withdraw from the vision until he viewed it as he would a muted television program. He no longer felt the heat of the flames or heard the screams of the innocents as he watched the scene unfurl remotely.

The portrait appeared out of the flames, and Sam concentrated hard on seeing the writing on the brass plaque before it melted from the wall. He scrambled from the bed, tripping over the covers as they tangled around his feet. He fell into Dean's bed, jostling the mattress hard with his knee.

Dean awoke abruptly. He was standing on the opposite side of the bed, his knife drawn and ready before Sam could mutter an apology.

"Sam?" Dean's voice held a dangerous quality that Sam recognized as confused caution.

"It's okay, Dean. It's just me."

Sam dumped his duffel onto the floor, flinging his possessions aside until he found a notepad and pencil. Hurriedly he wrote down the name he saw in his dream, staring at it for a second before making his way to his laptop.

"Sam?" This time Dean's tone was full of concern.

Sam powered up the laptop, rubbing his hand over his forehead as he waited. The blue light cast his features in sharp relief in the dark room, making the shadows beneath his eyes starkly visible. Dean moved to stand behind him, placing a comforting hand on his little brother's shoulder.

"I had a vision," Sam told the computer screen quietly. Dean's grip tightened on his shoulder.

"It couldn't have been. It was just a bad dream, Sam."

The laptop finished booting, and Sam logged onto the internet to do a name search.

"It was a vision, Dean."

"Dude, your visions were tied to the demon. Azazel is dead. No demon, no visions."

Dean removed his hand from Sam's shoulder, swiping his palm though his short-cropped hair.

"I saw him. Azazel was in my vision."

Dean paced away, counting the steps between his brother and the far end of the room. "That proves it then. It was just a bad dream. A nightmare."

The page Sam was searching for loaded and his hands dropped away from the keyboard in shock. Dean heard his brother's sharp inhalation of breath and he crossed the room to peer closer.

"Dean, we have to go home. We have to go to Lawrence."

Dean drew back sharply, putting distance between himself and Sam's glowing laptop.

"What the hell, Sam? We promised Bobby and Ellen we would swing by for Christmas dinner. You know I'm not big on the holidays, but dude, its food," Dean exclaimed with over-exaggerated excitement.

Neither brother cared much for the holidays. It was always a reminder to them of everything they lost. Dean had been just old enough to remember his last Christmas with his mother and his first one without her. Sam had never really experienced the holiday until his first and only with Jess. The memory was so bittersweet that sometime the sight of colored lights would cause his throat to tighten up.

Sam twisted in his seat, bringing the laptop closer so his brother could see.

"It may have just been a dream about the demon, but I definitely have never seen this portrait of Colonel Shalor Eldridge and his family."

Dean dragged his gaze away from the intensity he saw in Sam's eyes, and looked at the computer screen. A portrait of a man surrounded by five little girls stared back at him. The heading beneath the picture announced the man's name and that his legacy, the elegant Eldridge Hotel still stood in downtown Lawrence.

Dean dropped his eyes, rubbing his hand wearily across his face. Sam waited quietly, his dark eyes intense and driven. Dean knew that look. He had lived with it for a year while Sam desperately tried to disprove his destiny as a chosen child of evil. The last six months that look had worsened as Sam strove to find a solution to Dean's ill-fated deal. Either way, it boded no good for Dean. No matter how much he blustered that he was the oldest and in charge of making all of the decisions, inevitably he always did what his little brother wanted. He didn't do so out of duty or family obligation. He did it so he could help lift some of the burden from his brother's shoulders that was weighting Sam down with every passing day. He did it because he loved his little brother.

"Well, hell. What do you think Missouri is doing for the holidays?"


	2. Chapter 2

_True facts: The Eldridge Hotel has been burned down twice, both times by marauders. However the second time was not on Christmas Eve. It was in fact Aug. 21, 1863. I fudged the date for creative purposes, I hope you don't mind._

_Colonel Shalor Eldridge did own the hotel. However, I'm fairly certain that he is __**not**__ guilty of the nefarious deeds that I'm accusing him of in this story. 99.9 positive---almost---sorta---I mean, do we really know what people do in their basements? Or on the fifth story of their hotels?_

_Before the wonderful invention of electricity, it was common to decorate Christmas trees with candles to imitate the stars._

Thanks to Starliteyes for rushing this back to me, and correcting all my mistakes.

**A Christmas Miracle**

Chapter Two

"It says here that the hotel was originally built in 1855 and was called the Free State Hotel. It was supposed to be a refuge for early settlers who wanted Kansas to join the Union as a free state."

Sam sprawled in the passenger seat, reading from the multitude of articles he printed before checking out of their hotel room.

Dean was driving slower than usual, the collar of his worn leather jacket flipped up protectively as he glanced over at his brother. His entire posture screamed tension, from the way his knuckles whitened around the steering wheel to the hard set of his shoulders. There was a gleam in Sam's eyes that hadn't manifested since killing the demon. It was filled with bitterness, anger and a thirst for revenge that mirrored their father's when hunting.

Dean didn't like it one bit.

Neither was he happy about driving to Lawrence. Although he had made his peace the last time they returned home, he still felt uncomfortable in the strange town. It was a mix between homesickness and dread. Especially after his run-in with the Djinn. Now when he thought of home he smelled BLT's and freshly mowed grass. He shoved down the longing boiling in his gut, setting his jaw. Dredging up the past never ended well, and besides, the demon was dead. This was only a wild goose chase, egged on by a bad dream. It had to be. The alternative just wasn't possible.

"The hotel burnt down twice in its history. Shalor bought it just before the first time in 1856. It was torched again in 1863, on Christmas Eve, killing dozens of people. Both times the fires were blamed on raiders sacking the town."

Sam cast Dean a knowing glance that made his big brother hackles stand on end.

"Well that sucks. Did they forget to blow out their Christmas tree candles?"

Sam glared at him and Dean returned the look with a sneer.

"Dean." Sam's tone when he said his brother's name could have melted glaciers. "Why are you being an ass?"

Dean slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel, suddenly angry. It wasn't like he cared where he spent Christmas. Granted it was his last one, and he would like to carry a nice memory with him to keep him warm in Hell, but he could do without. It just bugged him that once again, Sam up and changed their plans because he had some sort of calling. A calling that should be getting a disconnect signal because the Demon. Was. Dead.

"Why are we hauling our asses to Lawrence, Sam? This is stupid. The demon is dead. You aren't a psychic freaking wonder anymore, and I want to go eat my weight in food over at Bobby's."

"Are you more pissed off that you aren't going to be able to eat Ellen's candied yams or that I might still be a freak?"

Dean's hands tightened on the wheel and his lips thinned into a white line. He wasn't sure how to answer the loaded question. The thought of Sam still being psychic freaked him out. The _whole _damn thing freaked him out.

Sam waited for him to answer, the air between them was charged with hurt feelings and anger. Dean took a deep breath, counting to ten before releasing it.

"You're a freak, Sam. We both are. That's nothing new. But dude, if you are having visions then that means the demon is not dead."

The air between them remained heavy but it was no longer charged with resentment. Sam slumped farther in the seat, folding himself up like a pretzel, the expression on his face miserable. Dean fought to keep his eyes straight ahead, watching for patches of ice on the road.

The closer they drove to Kansas, the colder it became. There was a fine layer of pristine snow in the fields on either side of the snaking, black asphalt they drove down. The Impala's heater didn't work so well, and it was hard to keep the huge cab warm. Dean reached behind him blindly, closing his hand around the old woolen blanket they kept in the backseat, and tossed it onto Sam's lap.

His little brother muttered something between irritation at having his papers obscured and a thank you for keeping him warm. Dean didn't reply, just kept them heading north. Sam settled the blanket around his knees, pulling out his papers from beneath it so he could read.

"I looked up a couple of paranormal websites before we left."

Sam paused before continuing and Dean knew he was looking for permission. Dean inhaled deeply, clearing his mind, forcing himself to accept the hunt. He nodded curtly, his eyes never leaving the road.

"There's some speculation that Shalor may have been a pretty powerful demonologist or just a human possessed by a demon, and that the reason the hotel burnt down both times wasn't because of raiding parties, but from rituals gone wrong. They say he was trying to summon demons and supposedly he created a portal on the fifth floor just for that purpose."

"Really? Another freaking hell gate?" Dean asked, genuinely interested.

"Well it says here that it's a dimensional doorway, but essentially yes. A gateway to Hell."

"Huh. Maybe something's trigged it. Your dreams might have nothing to do with Azazel at all. Maybe it's just some demons ringing the doorbell. We shut it down and that's that."

Dean shot his brother a bright smile Sam half-heartedly returned.

"Maybe," Sam replied, but he didn't sound convinced. Dean didn't allow Sam's lack of enthusiasm to bring him down. Once he had an answer for his problems he was all about solving them. All they had to do was shut down the doorway. If that meant torching the hotel for a third time, then it couldn't be helped. Besides, a little arson during the holidays was always a good time. Dean grinned to himself and floored the gas.

8888

Dean and Sam pulled up to the curb in front of Missouri's house, slumping down in the seat a little. Snow had fallen in Lawrence the night before, but her yard was anything but pristine. A passel of children were running around in circles screaming at the top of their lungs. The boys had formed a snowball coalition whose sole commandment was to bomb the girls back to Cootieland. The girls were trying hard to ignore the pests as they scouted out some untouched portion of the yard to make snow angels.

Missouri's two-story home had swags of colored lights cheerily looped around the sagging eaves, and green boughs were draped around the big bay windows. Normally the rustic farm house was dreary with its faded paint and aged clapboard sides, but in the middle of winter it looked like the heart of family as red bows dressed up the doorway and children built snowmen on the lawn.

Sam was chewing on his lower lip, his eyes shading with something close to regret as he watched the children play. Dean was pretty sure that the cold sweat spreading across his body was threatening to soak the underarms of his shirt even though it was quite chilly in the car. Their entire lives they had always stood at the curb looking in at houses like this one while the families inside celebrated. They never had Christmas presents wrapped in delicate foil paper or a tree decorated with fragile glass bulbs. They didn't bundle into the car and drive around town oohing and aawing over the fantastic light displays in people's yards. Christmas to them was a reminder of everything they didn't have in life. A physical example of how abnormal they really were.

A sharp tap on the driver side window jerked them upright. Missouri bent down, peering at them with a disapproving frown on her face. Dean rolled down his window, absolutely certain she was going to tell them their intrusion was unwelcome. The holidays were for family, not strangers who had evil following them around like some sort of prowling, wild animal.

"I've been waiting for you boys."

Sam and Dean sat silently, staring owlishly at her. Missouri sighed deeply, her look of irritation growing. Sam and Dean vaguely recognized the look as motherly exasperation more than anything else.

"Well, are you going to sit out here all day in the cold? I swear you boys don't have the sense God gave you. Get your stuff and get in here. We're about to have some hot cocoa and eggnog ."

She hustled them out of the car, fussing over their clothing which she deemed insubstantial for the weather and muttering something about it being a good thing she knit them some sweaters. Sam tried to explain to her why they had come while hauling bags out of the trunk, but as soon as they exited the car children swarmed them, hopping around like jumping beans on sugar crack, asking where they were from and if they had any candy. Missouri shooed them away, and Dean was trying hard to shove down the longing swelling in the pit of his stomach. He forced himself to think about the upcoming hunt as he tossed another bag at Sam's head.

"If this is a bad time, we can go find a motel or something. We don't want to intrude on you and your family," Sam told her anxiously, still chewing on his lower lip.

"It's true then. You two don't have the sense God gave you. Don't be stupid. You boys _are_ family."

Suddenly, Missouri whipped around, stabbing a stubby finger into the center of Dean's chest.

"Dean Michael Winchester, you are not going to burn the Eldridge Hotel to the ground."

"I didn't say I was going to!"

"But you were thinking it. What's wrong with you, boy?"

"Dude, my brain is so totally off limits."

"What brain?" Sam muttered just loud enough for Dean to hear. Dean lunged at his brother, but at the last moment he realized his path was blocked by a tiny child. He rocked to a stop, desperately trying to catch his balance before he pitched forward on top of a little girl who looked no older than two or three. She stared up at Dean with huge brown eyes, her thick hair sectioned out into braids by pink and red marble hair ties. She lifted her arms, grasping at air with chubby fingers. Dean blinked at her, completely mystified.

Missouri thunked him on the back of the head.

"Don't just stand there gaping like a jackanapes. Pick her up," she ordered, while herding the rest of the children towards the house with promises of cocoa and homemade whipped cream.

Sam had both bags clutched under his arms and couldn't cover up the smile that was stretching maniacally across his lips at his brother's bemused look. A frown blossomed between Dean's brows, and he shot a glare at Sam who was retreating towards the house.

"Get back here, you traitor," Dean shouted after him, still standing at the curb with the expectant toddler. She stretched up on her tip toes and whimpered, still reaching for him despite his glowering expression.

Dean shifted his weight, and she bounced on her toes. He muttered something murderous under his breath as he squatted down, fitting his hands under her armpits and lifting her straight up. Her lower lip pudged out, and she whimpered again as she tried to wiggle closer to him. Defeated, Dean pulled her closer, wincing when she weaseled her cold fingers beneath his jacket to snuggle against his chest.

Missouri's house was swarming with people. It vaguely reminded Dean of their encounter with killer bees a few years back. People were buzzing everywhere. Children were weaving in and out of the rooms. Women were clustered into the kitchen, pushing the men into the living room to talk shop by the huge Christmas tree.

There were a dozen adults of varying ages and twice as many children, making the house reverberate with laughter and shouting. The big house wasn't too terribly crowded, but to the Winchesters it may as well have been Disneyland on Mother's Day---too crowded to breathe, too many people to interact with at once, too much _family_ to comprehend.

"This way!" A familiar voice sang out from the direction of the overflowing kitchen. Sam and Dean wove their way towards it, muttering apologies to small children who darted by. At some point a smiling woman plucked the little girl from Dean's arms, despite the slight struggle when she wouldn't let go of his coat labels. The woman coaxed the girl gently with an apologetic smile towards Dean.

"She likes those of the guardian path," the woman offered absently, and Dean cast her a dumbfounded look, but she melted into the sea of people before he could question what she meant.

They made it to the kitchen without incident and were immediately greeted by a bevy of older women who looked like Missouri in varying degrees.

"Okay, introductions, these are my sisters Kansas and Ana, my cousins Opal, Pearl and Ruby, my oldest nieces Wisteria and Azalea. On the stool here is our baby brother Brask."

She motion to the only male in the room who was seated at the high counter with a heaping plate of food in front of him. He wore a pair of reindeer antlers with bells and a slightly off-center smile that radiated happiness.

"Brask?" Dean muttered quietly to his brother.

"Nebraska, I'm thinking," Sam replied.

Dean cast his most glorious smile towards the woman Ana, who looked a few years older than Missouri if the slight gray in her hair was any indication.

"So how's it that you got the normal name? "

Sam's elbow shot out so fast Dean wasn't able to sidestep it fast enough. It jabbed him hard in the ribs, nearly knocking the breath out of him.

The woman scowled at Dean, but there was a dance of laughter in her chocolate eyes.

"It's short for Louisiana."

Dean snorted, "Of course it is. How come I didn't see that coming?"

"'Cause you're a moron."

"No name calling in this house. Try to set an example for the little children." Missouri's terse tone and hard eyes spoke volumes on how she thought they weren't much older than the hellions screaming through her house. Sam pouted and Dean snickered.

"Oh and here's our older brother, our big protector, Tex."

Dean and Sam spun around to face a tall black man who actually towered several inches over Sam. He had a full head of gray hair, but his dark face was smooth except for laugh lines around his eyes. He eyed the boys warily from head to toe, instantly setting off every alarm bell in Dean's already taut body. Reflexively, he nudged Sam behind him with his shoulder, standing half a step in front of his brother as he faced off with the man. Something close to wary respect gleamed in Tex's eyes and his hand shot out in greeting. Dean shook his hand, watching tensely when Sam did the same.

"Dean."

"Sam."

They offered up their names as a way of greeting. The man nodded in return.

"Staying for the holiday?"

"Uh, just stopping by. We have business in town." Sam was still uncertain of their welcome in the overfilled house. Large gatherings had always made him nervous. The one and only Christmas he spent with Jess had been at her parents' house. The gathering hadn't been as large but the experience was nerve-wracking in a way that was more than just meeting her parents. Ever since he was a kid he felt he had to wear a mask whenever in public. His greatest fear was if the mask slipped, then everyone would know just what kind of freak he really was.

A freak who hunted ghosts. A freak with psychic visions. A freak who didn't have a mother.

If anyone outside his family really saw who he was they would turn their back on him in disgust. He kept his secret from Jess for that very reason. Because he couldn't stand to see the look on her face if she found out the truth. Only now did he think his decision just may have been a mistake. Perhaps he should have had more faith in her love for him.

"They'll be staying as long as they need to be staying," Missouri spat, fiddling with the stove.

"Now, Missouri, if they have business in town then we should respect that." Tex sounded sincere, but Dean detected a slight hedge in his tone. It wasn't malicious by any means, just a sense of uncertainty for the two unfamiliar males that had entered a household bursting at the seams with his family.

"We'll be out of your hair before you know it." Dean assured, meeting the man's steady gaze unwaveringly.

"Okay, now that you boys are done exchanging testosterone, would you like to eat?" Kansas offered, having already fixed two plates while everyone else busied themselves with other tasks. The youngest women of the group, Wisteria and Azalea, had been shooed away, the older women having found their thirty some odd years of cooking experience to be lacking.

Dean perked up immediately at the mention of food. He elbowed Sam towards the counter, keeping himself between his brother and Tex. He noticed the tension in Sam's shoulders and dismissed it as anxiety. Crowds made him uneasy as well, but in a different way than Sam he expected. For him, the nervousness stemmed from the fact that it was too hard to keep an eye on everyone at once. An attack could manifest from any direction and he never knew which way he should be facing or where he should position Sam for the best angle of protection.

Oddly, crowds where one of the few places that Sam allowed Dean to take almost complete control and exert his big brother protectiveness. It was almost as if Sam lost all ability to function. Like his big brain was concentrating hard on maintaining something else so vital to Sam's survival he forgot about protecting himself from other dangers.

Any other time, Sam fought Dean's protective instincts like a dog on short leash. Especially lately, since _The_ _Deal_, as they had come to refer to it as. It seemed to Dean that Sam was trying hard to reverse their roles; not bucking for equal, but actually taking Dean's place as protector. Dean fought tooth and nail against it. As far as he was concerned it was unnatural. _He_ was the older brother, that was _his_ place in life and _he_ wasn't about to let his baby brother usurp that.

"Mama!"

A young girl burst into the kitchen, no older than sixteen and looking every inch like she knew what a delectable young woman she was turning out to be. Even though there was snow on the ground she wore a sleeveless tank that revealed a wide expanse of mocha skin above her low slung jeans. Her eyes and lips glittered with sparkling make-up, and gold hoop earrings hung jauntily from her delicate ears. Her dark brown hair was long and straight, brushing the tops of her smooth shoulders.

When she caught sight of Dean and Sam she skid to a stop, her wide eyes lighting up. Her gaze lingered long enough on Dean for him to shift uncomfortably. He had been the recipient of that particular look enough times to know what it meant, but never had it been from someone so obviously related to someone who could very well smite him. From the corner of his eye, he caught Sam covering a sly smile with his hand. The little shit knew exactly what was going on and was settling in for a good time.

He cast a covert glance over to Missouri who was stirring a pot on the stove. He had no idea the extent of her abilities, but he had no desire to find out if her psychic skill leant itself to hex casting. The pox never sounded like a good idea---ever.

"What is it, Lavender?" Pearl asked, looking up from her cutting board. She looked to be the same age as Missouri and by the cozy looks they gave each other, the cousins probably grew up pretty closely.

"Mama! How many times do I have to tell you that I'm Maggie now?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at the girl's affronted tone. He remembered Sam using the same snide clip when informing their father that he was Sam not Sammy.

Pearl slammed the huge knife down on the cutting board with a loud clatter. Sam's head shot up from the food he was shoving in his mouth with a wince.

"Lavender Magnolia Kennedy, you're gonna knock that nonsense off right now. You are going to go by the name I gave you. I did not go through three days of excruciating labor to bring you into this world to have you disrespect me to my face. Do you understand me young lady?"

"But, Mama!" The girl whined magnificently, but Pearl's face only darkened more. The girl dropped her head, a mutinous grimace stretching over her pretty lips. "Yes, Ma'am."

"That's my little flower. Now what do you need, baby?"

The girl shoved her fingers into the pockets of her jeans and the waist line sagged, revealing sharp hipbones. Behind them, Dean could hear a low rumble of discontent emanate from Tex who was leaning against the far counter in an effort to snake cookies as they were coming out of the oven.

"I just wanted to holler at ya that there's a wicked ride outside. Totally off the hook. It'd be crackin' to own a ride like that. C'mon, Mama, give me some props, I'm totally old enough to drive now."

Tex straightened from his slump at the counter with such alacrity that Dean tensed in response.

"Young lady, your mother does not pay to send you to private school so you can sound like an uneducated ignorant ass. Your grades reflect what an intelligent girl you are so when you speak you will do so properly."

Lavender's face screwed up with embarrassment, and she shot a mortified glance towards Dean who dropped his head to his plate. He didn't want to embarrass the girl even more by acknowledging the conversation. She choked on her words, before spinning on her heel to flee the room.

Pearl sighed deeply, putting a hand on her amble hip. She bore holes straight through Tex with such intensity that both boy's shifted over a couple inches to remove themselves from her line of sight. Both Sam and Dean were coming to the startling conclusion that family, as much as it was desirable, could be awfully scary as well.

"Texas Mosely, what were you thinking talking to her like that?"

"Pearl, you can't just---"

"Now you listen to me. Sixteen is a very delicate age. Especially for a girl as special as her. A little expressiveness never hurt anyone and it helps her to fit in. You think it's easy for her being so damn smart all the time? Other kids look at her like she's weird for knowing the things she does."

Sam's shoulders hunched a little as Pearl spoke, and Dean shifted until their elbows brushed.

"Now, Pearl," Tex cajoled, but he was cut off again by the irate woman who had somehow found a wooden spoon to wave towards him.

"Don't you, 'now Pearl,' me. Get yourself a cookie, and go find yourself something useful to do, like hanging that garland Missy has been after you to do since you got here."

Texas made to protest, but the other women took up Pearl's cause and shooed the man out after handing him a clutch of gingerbread men.

"I like cookies. Do you think cowboys and Indians like cookies?" Brask asked Sam, a wide gap-tooth grin stretching over his bright face.

Sam's brow furrowed, and for not the first time since stepping into the kitchen he wondered if something was not quite right about the man.

"I suppose. Everyone likes cookies."

Brask nodded in acceptance and went back to sculpting his mash potatoes and peas. Sam stared at his masterpiece for moment, startled that it bore a remarkable resemblance to a several story building.

"Brask, stop playing with your spuds and eat them," Ana admonished gently, placing several cookies beside his plate. Brask showed admirable restraint in not reaching for them, instead shoveling the rest of his food into his mouth so he could have desesrt.

Dean ignored the interaction between his brother and the other man, instead honing his attention onto Missouri.

"Missy?" he questioned dryly, the mocking sarcasm heavy in his voice.

"Boy, I'm going to whack you one if you keep it up." Missouri shot him a threatening look from where she stood at the stove. By the smell and her constant stirring, he was fairly certain she was making chocolate pudding.

Kansas and Ana grinned at Dean before shuffling over to Missouri to box her in on either side.

"Little Missy Doll, our baby sister," they cooed together in a completely teasing older sibling fashion.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, get off me." Missouri shrugged them away, dipping her chin to hide her grin.

The women giggled girlishly at her discomfort, and Dean felt a clench in his chest. Briefly, he wondered what it would be like to have sisters. He glanced over at Sam who was watching the exchange with a ghost of a smile on his lips. He was certain that Sam was thinking the same thing.

"It's not that fun. They do things to you while you're sleeping. Like paint your nails," Brask told them solemnly, his brown eyes woeful. Kansas heard him, and she ruffled his hair lovingly.

"Aww, Brask, you always looked so cute in pink."

The man ducked his head, munching on a cookie, and Kansas turned her attention to the boys.

"So Christmas is two days away. You two get your shopping done?"

Sam and Dean blinked at her.

"Uh, we, um. You know we should get going. We have to find a motel room and all," Sam dodged.

"Nonsense. You'll be sleeping on the rollout tonight. You can keep all those rug rats from opening the presents in the middle of the night," Missouri ordered.

"I don't think that would be a good idea."

Dean started to back up his brother, when he felt a small hand tugging on his pant leg. He looked down into impossibly big brown eyes. The little girl lifted her arms, her fingers clutching at air.

"Don't you have a mother or something?" Dean muttered while reaching down to lift her into his lap. She snuggled in tightly against his shoulder, rubbing her tiny nose across his collar bone.

"Gross, you better not be snotty."

Ruby, the oldest woman of the bunch, had been quietly peeling potatoes at the sink. She leaned over to hand the little girl a cookie, snorting when she overheard Dean's words. She graced him with a toothless grin, patting him on the cheek. Dean drew back in surprise, nearly falling off his stool.

The women laughed at his antics, and for the first time since entering the house, Sam smiled largely.

"Dimples!" Kansas squealed.

She lunged towards Sam, pinching both his cheeks in her fingers. The other women joined in, overriding Sam's protests while shrilly demanding they stay the night. Dean, laughing belly-deep at his brother's predicament, was unable to help him.

Dean looked down at the tiny girl in his lap, bemused to find her staring intently at him while munching on her cookie. Longing ripped through his chest so forcefully that he had to fight the urge to rub the tight spot over his heart. Family was something he had always secretly wanted, but knew he could never have. Children were so vulnerable, so fragile. How could he possibly think about having his own when he knew what was out there preying on them in the dark? Yet, the longing had always been there, deep inside him. The yearning for a home, a woman who loved him and children crawling into his lap.

Now that secret dream was even more of an impossibility. In six months he was going to be dead. He had no legacy to leave behind except for a classic car and a heartbroken brother. There would be no immortality for him in the eyes of a child. His name wouldn't be remembered beyond Sam's death.

He rubbed his hand over the child's back, feeling the tiny knobs of her spine and ribs. She huddled closer, a small crease forming over her pug nose.

"Looks like we are staying for the night. What do you think of that?" Dean asked her, not really expecting a response.

"Cookie?" She bit off a chunk before offering the rest of the half-eaten morsel to him. He smiled, taking a bite, feeling the weight lessen in his chest when she smiled back at him.

Dean was feeling alright in the world, but that was before Sam suddenly pitched off his stool and collapsed on the floor with an ear-splitting scream.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I know, I suck. I do deeply apologize for the lengthy wait. However, good news. Even as this is being posted I am working on the next chapter. As always, thanks to Starliteyes for make this readable for me.

**The Christmas Miracle**

Chapter Three

Sam's initial scream ripped through the room, but then he fell terrifyingly quiet. Something painful clawed through Dean's chest and gripped his heart. He bolted off the stool so quickly that he was a little surprised he didn't dump the baby onto the floor. He controlled himself just long enough to hand her off to a nearby person, before tearing his way through the crowd to Sam.

Sam was prone on the floor, his hazel eyes blown wide with fear. His pupils were tiny pinpricks of color compared to the whites of his eyes. They were darting around, searching frantically for something, before locking onto Dean like a man would a life preserver. Sam's mouth was clamped shut, his pink lips bleeding away to white. Dean could see him biting the insides of his cheeks, and he knew that his brother was holding back his screams.

Noise was rampant all around them. Women's shrill voices filled the air as they called for their husbands and brothers. Beneath it all, Dean could hear the husky timber of Brask's voice muttering something indistinct. Dean ignored it all. To him, it seemed as if the world was absent of sound. There was a void of dead space surrounding Sam, caused by his refusal to give voice to his terror. Without Sam's screams other noise ceased to exist.

Dean dropped to his knees, edging his arm around Sam's shoulders to pull him into a half-seated position. Sam gripped Dean's bicep tightly, forming bruises beneath his long-sleeved shirt almost immediately. They locked eyes, and a muscle in Dean's jaw jumped when he saw the raw terror Sam was choking down.

"What's going on? Is he hurt?"

Tex stood nearby, looming tall and dark over them. Dean growled deep in his throat, and the entire room contracted in fright. Dean glared up at Tex who stood his ground beside them. They shared a long moment of big brotherly understanding. Sam was Dean's responsibility and he wasn't going to let another soul get near him. Tex jerked his chin down, stepping away. He took to the task of soothing his sisters, gently herding them away so they weren't sucking up all the air around Sam and Dean.

When Dean looked back at Sam, he could tell that his little brother had slipped under, his conscious mind disappearing into a vision. Once they had killed the demon Dean had hoped he would never see the vacant expression in his brother's face ever again, but it seemed it was too much to ask for. Dean gathered Sam closer, dropping his head until their brows touched.

Now within the stillness of the void that Sam created, Dean could make out the words of Brask's husky murmur.

"So pretty they burn. Dancing on the ceiling. Smiles and screams. Teeth and bone. Watch them burn with eyes of gold."

Dean rotated his head, keeping his brow connected with Sam's. From beneath the veil of his dark lashes he peered through the pulsating crowd to a figure that was hunched against the far wall, legs drawn up and body rocking. Brask mumbled into his knees, his dark brown eyes showing the same faraway look as Sam's. Dean screwed his eyes shut, and held Sam, muttering reassurances to him to drown out the sound of Brask's words.

"Alright give those boys some room. Dean-- pick your brother up and bring him in here."

Missouri's no nonsense voice cut through the room, and Dean's head jerked towards her in response. The crowed parted and he could see her standing next to an open door just off the kitchen. His chin dipped in a quick nod and he gathered Sam closer to his chest. Though his brother was deep inside his vision, he was aware enough to try and stand on his own two legs. He was as wobbly as a newborn colt and Dean had to work hard to keep them both balanced.

They stumbled past Missouri, nearly falling off the stoop as they dropped into a low set room that was lushly decorated with a thick carpet and two-tone mauve walls. A queen-sized bed was at the far side draped with a purple hibiscus patterned duvet. Dean lowered Sam into the bed thankfully and for once there was no snide comment about it being a grandma bed.

As soon as Sam hit the mattress, Missouri closed the door, shutting out the sliver of light that illuminated the room and the hysterical noise from the kitchen. Everything was dark and silent. The only things that could be heard were their rapid breathing. It took a moment for Dean to get his bearings. When he did, he snapped on the Tiffany lamp beside the bed. Soft gold light flooded the room, soothing Dean's aching eyes.

Sam was curled up on the bed, his back to Dean, his legs drawn up to his chest. Many times when they were children, Dean had seen Sam sleep like that. When he was scared, lonely or hurting. Dean responded the same way as he had done all those times in the past. He lowered himself on the bed, bracing his back against the head board. There wasn't enough room for him, so he stretched one leg out along the length of Sam's body, lending his heat to his brother while he braced his weight on his other foot that was planted on the floor.

It was an uncomfortable position, but he didn't complain as he watched his brother's face. Beads of sweat had broken out on his brow, and his eyes were screwed shut. His bleached lips were still clamped tightly together to hold back his screams. His shaggy brown hair was damp and curly with sweat and was hanging limply against his forehead. Dean brushed a few strands away from his Sam's eyes before sinking his fingers deeply into his hair, cupping his little brother's skull in his big palm.

Their time together was drawing to a close. Soon he was going to be dead and Sam was going to be left behind to deal as best he could. Dean didn't want to leave his brother. God help him, he wanted to stay and protect him. But he could see no way out of the terrible deal he had made. And if he did make it out, the thought of Sam dying again as a result made him want to cut his own heart out. He was in a lose-lose situation. Dean wasn't surprised. It seemed his life was filled with them. It all started with their mother dying and having to choose between his family and the safety of strangers.

"Dean."

Dean's fingers tightened in Sam's hair before he pulled his hand away. He leaned over his brother's shoulder so he was in his peripheral vision.

"Hey, Sammy. Thanks for checking back in after your little vacation."

Sam let out a shaky breath, and Dean could feel his brother's entire body shudder.

"If that was a vacation then I am never going on one again."

"Agreed, you suck at picking vacation spots. Next time its drinks and babes on me in South Beach."

Sam rolled up off the bed so suddenly that the displacement of weight knocked Dean off the edge. He caught himself and stood up fluidly, he's feet planted solidly on the ground. Sam wavered on the other side of the bed, flinging out a big hand to catch himself on the knotted pine foot post.

"Whoa, there, Sammy. What are you doing?"

Dean quickly skirted the end of the bed and grabbed Sam's arm to steady him. Sam stared hard at his feet as if he could mentally will them to hold their ground.

"We have to go to the hotel."

"Okay. There will be plenty of time for that tomorrow. For now let's just relax and eat all that fine food they're cooking up in the kitchen."

Dean pushed Sam down onto the bed. Sam gracelessly sat on the edge, but he refused to lay back. He grabbed Dean's biceps, his strong fingers biting deeply into the muscle. Dean was bent over, awkwardly captured by his brother. Sam stared hard into Dean's eyes, making him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He hated the tortured look on Sam's face whenever he felt compelled to act in accordance with the unknown forces that prompted his visions. His pupils had returned to normal size, but that didn't distract from the sheer force of need Dean saw reflected there. He had seen that look many times before when Sam was hustling him out of the room to chase down some poor bastard that was on the verge of dying. He already knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"We have to go right now, Dean. We have to find the portal before more people die."

"Sam. You—" Dean pulled away, brushing his hand through his short hair as he glared down at his brother. How could he explain to him the absolute terror he had felt when Sam had screamed? Sam had had a lot of visions in the past two years, but none of them had been this severe. None of them had terrorized him to the very depths of his soul.

"This last vision. You've never collapsed like that. You scared the crap out of me." Dean burst out, unsure of where the sudden emotion came from. As the predetermined date of his death loomed closer, the more he felt the need to share his feelings with Sam. That was something he had better button up real quick though or he would be leaving Sam with more than just loss. He would be leaving him with a whole garbage bag full of emotional crap.

Sam grabbed the footboard and levered himself off the bed. Once he had steadied his feet, and he could stand on his own, he lifted his chin to look at Dean.

"I know, Dean. But we have to do this. We have to save these people."

He turned his back on Dean and made his way towards the door. Dean watched him, a look of hurt stretched over his taut features before it was quickly hidden away.

Sam opened the door and light and sound invaded them. Sam fell back blinking. He rubbed his temple, and Dean knew that he was fighting back a monster of a migraine.

"You two think you can just come in here, eat our food, then traipse right back out again?"

Missouri blocked the doorway, hands on her ample hips. A herd of women stood behind her, ready to defend her position. Sam fell back even further, and something intense flickered deep in Dean's chest. He stepped up taking his position in front of Sam. Though he would rather stay there and stuff himself on ham and turkey, he knew that Sam was right. They needed to get to the hotel.

"'Fraid so, Missy. We gotta head out. Thanks for all the good eats."

"That's Missouri to you, boy." She thumped him hard in the chest before turning aside, nodding in agreement.

"I thought you might. So we fixed you up a couple of plates to go."

A couple of plates turned out to be an entire box of food filled with sandwiches, tubes of mashed potatoes and yams, and all kinds of cookies.

"There should be microwaves in those fancy hotel rooms of theirs so you can heat all this up. And of course you can come back anytime for refills."

They were standing on the front porch where most of the family had gathered to send them off. Tex was standing back amid his sisters, and the kids were playing in the yard. Dean glanced around, but Brask was conspicuously absent. He wanted to ask what happened to him, but he knew it wasn't his business. Besides that he was a little afraid too. It had been apparent right from the get- go that there was something a little off about Brask. A part of Dean was scared he was that way because of the visions he obviously endured. What if he had so many in his life they had burned out parts of his brain? What if something like that happened to Sam?

Dean unconsciously moved closer to Sam as they stood united before Missouri's family.

"Here. Just in case I don't see you Christmas."

Missouri shoved two brightly wrapped packages into Sam's arms.

"Uhh, Missouri, that's not necessary." Sam stuttered.

"Nonsense, I made those specifically for you boys. Now if you get cold you open those up right away. Even if it's not Christmas yet. You hear me?"

She gave them both a tight hug before they could reply then shooed them off the porch. Everyone gathered close to wave as they walked away to the car. They piled everything in the backseat and turned to wave before getting in the car.

Dean saw the little girl lifted high in her mother's arms, her chubby hand waving back and forth. He waved back and sunk into the car, trying to stuff down the sadness he felt deep inside his heart. He glanced over at Sam, who had the same miserable expression on his face.

Dean's grip tightened on the wheel as he turned the car over and he wondered not for the first time, if somehow their life could have been different.

---

Sam and Dean were shirtless, covered in a thin dusting of white drywall, and streaked with sweat. It was Dean's turn to wield the sledgehammer, which he did with ferocity while Sam checked the hall to make sure that no one was coming to complain about the noise.

After leaving Missouri's, they went straight to downtown and checked into room 506 of the Eldridge Hotel. The room had originally been occupied, but Sam convinced the hotel manager they were writing a book on the most famous haunted hotels in the Midwest. The manager had beamed at the idea and had quickly hustled to make the arrangements while Dean shook his head and mumbled under his breath. Ghosts had ceased to garner respect. They were nothing more than tourist hot spots that no one took seriously anymore.

Room 506 was a corner suite at the front of the hotel that overlooked the town square. It was fashionably decorated with plush blue carpeting and cream sateen bedding on a huge king bed. Sam was convinced that the dimensional doorway must be activated by a sigil etched in the cornerstone of the building. So they took turns ripping up the drywall to get to the mortar and brick wall beneath.

They had their heater turned all the way down, but the temperature in the room was still like a sauna. The window was nailed shut, likely due to liability issues. With no way to get fresh air in the room, they had to cut apart their shirts to use as face masks to protect themselves from all the dust in the air. They piled their duffels along with their weapons in the center of the bed, uncaring if the gun oil stained the coverlet, and went to work on the wall.

Satisfied that no one was coming to ask about the noise, Sam closed the door and turned back towards his brother. He watched how fiercely he attacked the wall, and not for the first time he felt a hot stab of sadness knife through his guts. A long time ago, in another life, Sam had had a chance at a normal life. He had Stanford, Jessica and dreams of a future; but Dean never tasted a life like that. His only glimpse of normal had been a sick trick of the mind played on him by a hungry Djinn, and the brief second thought of what it might be like to have a kid when he visited a past weekend fling. For Dean, normal was breaking through walls and digging up graves. That was his life; and as much as he embraced it, it still apparent that he would rather beat it to death with a sledgehammer.

"Do you ever think about quitting this and starting a family?"

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and Sam dropped his eyes to the blue carpet that looked like it had a dusting of powdered sugar. The rhythmic striking of the hammer stopped, and Sam could feel the heavy weight of his brother's eyes on his bowed head.

"I have a family."

Dean's words were clipped and they were followed by the whistling of air before the sledgehammer crashed into the wall again.

Sam shifted his weight and scratched his arm where some dust was irritating his skin before slipping both is hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His pants sagged lower, but he kept his eyes on the ground as he toed a piece of wood that Dean had flung away.

"I mean like kids, Dean. You really seemed to take to that little girl back at Missouri's."

Dean didn't say anything, and he never stopped swinging his hammer. Finally he broke through the last of the wooden ribs of the wall, and he let the smooth handle of the hammer slide through his palm so he could rest it on its head next to the dresser.

Sam moved next to Dean and started helping him clear the debris. He knew that if he waited long enough his brother would get tired of the silence and say something.

"Speaking of Missouri's, I noticed that you got jumpier than a cat on a hot tin roof when we walked in there."

Diversion and distraction were classic Dean techniques. Usually they didn't work with Sam, but Dean struck a chord. He hated crowds, always had, but it wasn't until Stanford that he realized why.

"I don't like crowds."

Dean cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

"You? Mister 'I think people are awesome', doesn't like crowds?"

Sam turned away and piled some wood to the side while he debated if he should come clean with his brother. It seemed so petty now that Dean was dying to keep anything from him, especially his feelings.

"When I was in Stanford, every time I walked into a room filled with people I always expected someone to turn around and say, 'Hey you! You don't belong here. You're a freak. A monster. Get out and don't come back. We don't want you here.'"

"Sam."

Sam turned around to see the bewildered look on Dean's face, and he felt an irrational flare of anger in his chest.

"Well its true isn't it? I'm a freak. Every day I lived in fear that someone would find out about the real Sam Winchester. Why do you think I never wanted you to visit me? Why do you think I told Dad to stay away? Those people there, all my friends, they weren't like me. They couldn't even imagine the things I seen. I couldn't relate to anyone. Not even Jess."

The last words were whispered and he turned away to hide the tears in his eyes from his brother. He rubbed a big hand across his sweaty chest, smearing drywall dust and grime. He thought he had gotten over those feelings of isolation and rejection, but going back to Missouri's earlier had only forced them to resurface.

"Yah, I want kids. A wife to hug me and kiss me when I get home from a long day of normal work. I want the white picket fence, a mortgage and a crappy car. I want all those things, because they come with barbeques in the backyard and weekend soccer games. I want all those things because it means I can love someone without worrying if they are going to die the next day."

Diversion and distraction, those were one hundred percent Dean's techniques. But now he was trying to distract Sam from his pain in the only way he knew how, by confessing his own.

They stood silent in the middle of the room, neither brother looking at the other.

Dean shifted and thumbed over his shoulder at the brick wall they uncovered.

"So I don't see a sigil here."

Grateful to move past the subjects that were painful to both of them, Sam stepped up next to Dean to examine the wall. He took a few moments to look over every brick carefully before stepping back and pointing.

"There."

Dean peered closer at the brick Sam was pointing at. Now that he knew what he was looking for he noticed right off a faint circled etched in the center with a smattering of runes he couldn't read.

"Is that it?" Dean looked back at Sam who was fishing some chalk out of his duffel.

"It's a doorknob. We need to make the doorway tangible in this dimension. Only then can we seal it permanently."

"Huh."

Dean made room for Sam who began to etch out a rectangular frame on the brick wall roughly the size of a door in white chalk. He then took pieces of red, yellow and blue chalk to draw out runes in the different corners.

As usual it only took him a few minutes, and not for the first time Dean wondered what all Sam had crammed in his monster brain. Sam dug out a book from his bag and was leafing through it, so Dean took the opportunity to step closer to examine the drawings.

"Very pretty, Sammy. Maybe you should add some flowers over here."

Sam rolled his eyes but didn't respond as he silently read the passage in the book.

"Not looking much like a doorway to me. Just a drawing on a brick wall."

Dean curled his hand into a fist and raised it to knock on the door. Sam saw him from the corner of his eye and dropped the book to the floor and trying to cross the room to his brother.

"No!" he screamed, but it was too late. Dean's fist connected with the door solidly.

The world exploded into a super nova of white light ringed in blue flames. Instinctively they threw up their arms to protect their faces, but the force of the blast knocked them off their feet. Sam hit the far wall hard and lost consciousness immediately. Dean was thrown into the middle of the room. Darkness edged his vision, but he forced it away as he belly crawled towards his brother. He was able to curl his body protectively around Sam's before he fell into unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Christmas Miracle**

Chapter Four

The first thing that Sam became aware of was the hard press of cool polished wood his cheek was smooshed against. It smelled strongly of wax, nearly driving away the lingering scent of ozone that hung heavy in the air. The second thing he was aware of was a lifeless weight draped over his back, crushing the air from his lungs. The scent and feel of the warmth was familiar. Safe, hovering, protecting, irritating. It was a presence he was used to being nearby at all times, but not directly on top of him. The sensation made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He reared back from the floor, elbowing the weight off onto the floor.

Dean fell into a heap beside him, grunting gently. Sam braced himself on his forearms and swung around to examine his brother. Other than being dazed, he seemed to be fine. His eyes fluttered, before focusing on Sam, his gaze hazy before coming amazingly and almost frighteningly sharp.

"Sam?"

It was two questions in a single word. Just by saying Sam's name, Dean conveyed that he wanted to know if his little brother was alright, and if he knew what the hell just happened. Sam grunted noncommittally in return, speaking classic Winchester that said in one wordless breath that he was okay, and he had no idea.

Carefully they pulled themselves off the wood floor, silently checking for broken bones or internal damage that wouldn't be readily apparent. A lifetime of being thrown into walls by angry spirits had taught them the danger signs and how to spot trauma.

Finding nothing wrong, not even a bruise, Sam turned his attention to the room, frowning fiercely. The wall they had ripped out was pristine, covered in green stamped wall paper flecked in gold. The longer he stared the more he thought he could make out designs of grapes and frolicking women in the faint print. He rotated away, taking in the simple wood furniture strewn across the room and the patchwork quilt spread over the queen bed.

"Toto, I don't think we are in Kansas anymore."

Sam snapped his head towards Dean who was standing by the window, the fine white lace curtain pushed away and pinned to the wall by his large dirty hand so he could look out into the street. Sam came up behind him, using his extra height to peer over his brother's shoulder.

The architecture of the street was vaguely familiar: L-shaped with a grassy square in the center. Clapboard buildings with false fronts lined the street with hand-painted signs advertising general goods and milled grain. The unpaved street was deep with black mud, turned up by wagon wheels and foot traffic. Wood sidewalks hid beneath brightly colored awnings that stretched out from the stores. Between the clusters of buildings where there was no protection, flat boards had been thrown down so people could cross without sinking into the mud.

Filthy brown snow was piled in the alleyways, lumped up against the buildings and the entire town had a feeling of impermanence. As though it had only been built yesterday and had yet to grow into itself.

Strangely enough, in the center of the square was a huge pine tree that was decorated with colorful ribbons and handmade ornaments. They couldn't make out much detail from their perch on the fifth story, but the large gold star on top of the tree immediately caught Sam's attention. It seemed to glitter in the early afternoon sunlight.

Shouting from the street drew their eyes to a man who stood at the head of a team of horses. They were attached to a flatbed wagon that was loaded with grain sacks. The man had one of the horses by the bridle and was trying forcefully pull the mare forward, while a woman sat on the bench cracking the reins. The wagon lurched forward suddenly as the sucking mud loosened its grip on the wagon wheel. The man continued to lead the horses through the most solid patches of mud, while his wife clicked the reins.

"Of course we're still _in_ Kansas. Just not _when_ we used to be."

Sam's nonchalant reply did not match the turmoil he felt inside. A thousand questions raced through his brain, starting with, how do they get home, and ending with, can the demon who held Dean's soul find them here?

Dean turned to stare at his brother. His mouth dropped open, but he realized at the last moment there was nothing to say. Sam was right. They were still in Kansas, just obviously not when they started out. From his estimate they had gone back roughly a hundred and fifty years. To a time of fresh ideals, a sense of possibility and deeply ingrained prejudice. The humor was not lost on Dean.

"You know what tip 63 of the Most Dangerous Night on Sci-fi is?"

Sam looked at his brother like he had lost his mind, but he played along.

"What?"

"If you open a doorway into another dimension, make sure you know how to close it."

"Ha ha. Very funny. Where do you get this stuff, Dean?"

"Late night T.V."

Simultaneously they both looked around the room, the reality of their situation sinking in when they saw no cable TV hook up. Both their gazes settled on the empty bed, then skimmed down to their naked chests.

"Our clothes," said Sam distressed.

"Our guns," Dean said at the same time, even more distressed.

"My book," Sam gasped lastly. He bolted from his place by the window, dropping on his knees by the bed to search beneath it.

"I don't think you are gonna find it, Sammy."

Dean scratched his chest, leaving red marks across his pale flesh. He crossed the room to the closed door that previously led to the bathroom, holding his breath expectantly. He knew why Sam was so upset. The book he had been reading was the manual to opening and closing dimensional doorways and their best hope for getting back home, but Dean was practical. If the rest of their stuff hadn't made it through, then nothing else would have either.

He pushed open the door to the water closet. A spindly-legged wash table was pushed up against the wall next to the only window in the room. On top sat a porcelain cream colored basin and matching pitcher. He stepped closer, releasing a relieved sigh when he found water inside the pitcher. A shadow of movement caught his eye and he looked up to see his wavering reflection in the oval mirror that was suspended on the wall above the table. His reflection was clear, but there was a slight wave to it, that told him the mirror wasn't glass, but polished metal instead. Shrugging he took one of the fluffy folded towels from beneath the table and poured some water in the basin.

"The book is gone."

Sam appeared breathless in the doorway, his gaze distracted as he searched the room. His brow furrowed a bit when he noticed a covered cast iron pot tucked into the corner of the small room. Dean followed his gaze and smirked.

"Gotta go potty?"

Sam just frowned at him, and Dean smirked some more, knowing that his brother's innate fastidiousness was disturbed by the presence of the chamber pot.

"Here."

He threw a wet rag at Sam, hitting him square in the chest with a splat. Sam caught the rag and looked at it questioningly.

"Clean yourself up as good as you can. We gotta find some clothes."

Dean shoulder his way past his brother and opened the door to peer down the hall. Being that it was the middle of the day, not a lot of people were moving around. It was a good bet they wouldn't be in their rooms either. After Sam cleaned himself off as best he could, they moved methodically down the hall, each taking one side and checking all the rooms.

They met back at their room, dumping the ill-gotten booty in the center of the bed. They emptied their pockets as well. They both had their wallets, filled with fake credit cards and modern day cash. Both of which was just as useless to them as the tiny pieces of papers with women's phone numbers that fell out of Dean's wallet.

Dean smiled up at his brother unashamedly. In Dean's front pocket he had two salt loaded shotgun shells and half a bag of peanuts. The only thing in Sam's pocket was a simple black bead rosary. Dean looked at it in askance, and Sam scowled at him.

"Yah, like Tina's, Nina's or Tiffy's cell numbers are ever gonna help us out in a bind."

Dean smiled and patted Sam on the back.

"I guess that depends on what kind of _bind_ you're looking to get out of." Dean's tone was dirty, and Sam shrugged him off while rolling his eyes.

"Find any weapons?" Dean asked. As soon as Dean realized their stuff was gone, he had felt a deep sense of unease building in his chest. He was never without a weapon of some sort. Especially his gun. Right now the only thing they had was his huge Bowie knife that he always kept tucked in a sheath in the back of his pants. Without his .45 he felt naked and vulnerable. And worse, he felt incapable of protecting his little brother.

"No."

Sam knew weapons were a priority, but he was more concerned over the loss of his book. He didn't think Dean realized the severity of their situation. Without that book, Sam didn't think he would be able to get them back home. Personally he wasn't prepared to live out his golden years in an era that didn't even have penicillin.

"Come on this is the Old West. They gotta have some pistols around here," Dean whined and Sam tried to push down his impatience.

"Yah, they are probably wearing them, Dean."

"Awesome. Do you think we'll see some gunslingers?"

Sam had to force himself not to smile. While Dean's outlook on life may seem irresponsible to some, and really did irate Sam on more than one occasion, no one really understood Dean's humor like Sam did.

"Dean, could you try to be a little less excited?"

"C'mon, Sammy. It's the Old West. What's there not to be excited about? It will be just like when we used to play cowboys and Indians when we were kids."

Sam paused riffling through the clothing on the bed. He shot the dirtiest look he could dredge up at his older brother, who had the courtesy to look just slightly abashed.

"I remember. You used to try and string me up for horse thieving." Sam's tone dropped with ill-concealed brotherly venom as he turned away to shrug on a red-checkered button-down shirt he found.

"Well I needed to practice my hog tying skills somehow," Dean replied affably, shrugging on his own shirt.

"You mean on someone besides poor Jimmy Dozer?"

"That little brat deserved what he got. No one teases my little brother, but me." Dean's voice turned ruthless, but Sam could hear the undercurrent of affection beneath.

"Wow, you're a romantic at heart, aren't ya Dean?" Sam teased, skirting away, when his big brother made a half-hearted attempted to slug him in the arm.

"Shut up, brat."

They finished dressing in silence, stopping to check their appearance when they were done. Their muddy boots would pass well enough, and their denim jeans, though stone-washed and a great deal lighter than the dark canvass ones worn by the cowboys, should get them by. Especially if they kept their jackets on.

Dean had found a dark ankle length slicker with a high collar in one of the rooms. The oiled leather was stiff, but it was perfect for keeping out rain and snow. He found a brown cowboy hat next to it, which he tilted low over his eyes. Sam had to admit that his brother blended perfectly with his new environment. Strap a six-shooter to his thigh, and you wouldn't be able to tell he wasn't born in this era.

Sam had dredged up a tan suede jacket lined with lamb's wool that fell to his mid-thigh. It was comfortable and warm, but it would be useless in a rain storm. Thankfully for now the weather seemed to be bright and sunny outside, if not cold. In another room he had found a white Stetson which he pushed back on his head so he could see. He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, and Dean couldn't help but to think that Sam looked like exactly like what he was. A geek out of his element. Without a computer or a book nearby, Sam was uneasy and worried.

Together they went down the back service stairs, avoiding the lobby and any unnecessary questions. It was doubtful their room reservation followed them back in time, and they were sure that the hotel staff would want to know why a couple of cowboys were wondering around their establishment. Dean slammed out the back door, and Sam held his breath a few seconds before he realized there was no fire alarm.

It was cold outside. The type of crisp cold that stole the air from your lungs and made your chest burn. It was bracing and felt good, almost cleansing. The air was light and fresh. Dean could smell wet horse and wood rot, but there was no cloying taste of vehicle exhaust in the back of his throat or the odor of tar and asphalt in his nose. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cleanliness.

They stepped directly into half froze mud, the soles of the boots sinking half an inch before stopping. They took their time navigating around the building, staying close to the icy snow that was piled in the shadows of the buildings where the ground was most solid. Eventually they reached the street and were able to get up on the raised, wooden boardwalk.

"Dean, we need to know exactly where we are at. Maybe then we can figure out what to do and how to get back."

"Yah, I hear you, Sam."

Dean shrugged his brother away who was encroaching dangerously close to his personal space. Nearby, just outside a leatherworking store, snoozing in a rocking chair was an old man. The man slit one cagey eye as they neared; their booted heals on the boards making enough racket to wake the dead.

"Hey, old timer. What day is it?"

"December 23rd," the man replied easily as if it weren't an uncommon question. Sam supposed in a time where the only clocks were the sun and the moon, and days were just a way of marking time, most people lost track.

"What year?" Dean prodded and Sam felt a flutter of unease in his stomach, already afraid of the answer.

The man frowned at them, gravely looking them both over from head to toe before replying.

"You boys been out on the Range for a while, haven't you?"

"Yes sir." Dean gave the man his best smile and waited for the answer.

"Its 1863."

Sam's stomach plummeted, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He planted his palm in the valley of Dean's shoulders to anchor himself to reality. Sensing what his brother needed, Dean remained still, solid beneath Sam's touch.

"Thanks." Dean touched fingers to his hat, dipping his chin in respect. Once he felt that Sam had his bearings again, he stepped away, leading his brother to a secluded doorway.

"Dean, he said 1863."

"Yah, I heard him, Sam."

"In about fourteen hours Shalor is going to open a doorway to Hell and the whole town is going to burn."

"Yah, I got that too, Sam."

"Was this what I saw in my vision? Did I see the past? If so, then what are we doing here? Are we supposed to stop it? How did we get here? That doorway isn't meant to take us through time. It's meant to be a doorway to Hell. Did I draw the wrong runes? Did I screw up somehow? Is this meant to be?"

Sam turned away, muttering to himself like a deranged madman. Dean could do nothing but wait, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one leg to another. With each question Sam asked himself, Dean felt his chest squeeze a little tighter. Every question was a valid one. Especially the questions of how they had gotten there and was it meant to be?

Dean wasn't as easygoing as he portrayed to everyone around him. He had worries. Lots and lots of worries. But he kept those to himself, because he knew that Sam already had so much on his plate. Besides, a lifetime of shoving it down in his gut made him a master of many disguises. Most of them were meant to protect himself or his family, and today was a day that he needed to don one in order to help his brother.

Dean slapped his brother heartily in the center of his back, slapping on a careful, carefree smile at the same time.

"C'mon, Sam. Stop being such a worry wart. Of course we were sent back to stop it. That's what we do. We're hunters. We can't let some big nasty step out into our world if we can help it."

"But, Dean, what if by doing so we damage time itself? We can't undo the past without sacrificing the future."

Dean allowed his smile to melt away, and his lips stretched into a serious thin line.

"Sometimes the past is so bad that it deserves to be wiped away. And if the future that comes from the past is really terrible, then whatever we do to it, can't be worse than what it already is."

"Yah, but we don't know how far the repercussions could extend."

"You just gotta have a little faith, Sam. We wouldn't be here unless we could do something good."

"You? Have faith? Dean—I." Sam cut himself off, a look of stupefied wonder on his face. Dean cut his eyes away, staring at the Christmas tree that stood tall across the street in the town square.

"Call it deathbed religion or whatever you want, Sam, but I don't think we would be here unless we had some sort of purpose. And I say that purpose is to put Shalor in his grave and keep the good people of Lawrence, Kansas safe from harm." Dean looked back at his brother, his green eyes resolute. His stare was so intense that it stole a little of Sam's breath away. "What do you say, little brother? You agree?"

"Yah, Dean. I do."

They stared at each other for long seconds, a weight dissolving off both of their chests. For the first time in a long time since the day Sam died and Dean made a terrible sacrifice, they were working together in tandem for one distinct and all-important goal.

Saving people, hunting things.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Christmas Miracle**

Chapter Five

"So how are we going to do this?"

"We shoot, Shalor."

Sam cut Dean a dirty look. Dean was looking straight ahead, walking with purpose to the far end of the boardwalk. Sam had no idea where he was going, but he trailed along while trying to construct some sort of reasonable plan.

"We can't just shoot him, Dean."

"Why not? If he's dead then problem solved, right?"

Sam sighed deeply, almost painfully. Dean's shoulders hunched slightly, and if he had been a puppy his ears would have flattened.

"Well for one, we don't know if he's human or possessed."

Dean stopped in his tracks, rounding on his heel.

"I thought you said he was a necromancer or some shit? You never said anything about being demon possessed."

"I said was a demonologist, which has nothing to do with necromancy, and I did mention it was possible he was possessed."

Dean's handsome face screwed up into an expression of confused ire.

"You did? When?"

"In the car," Sam replied slowly, wondering if his brother had been hit in the head one too many times. "Look it doesn't matter, Dean. First we have to find out if he's possessed or not before we do anything.

"And how do you suggest we do that, Oh Wise One?"

Sam glanced around, spotting a water trough tucked between two buildings. It looked old and unused, filled with stagnant rainwater. Sam stepped off the boardwalk, his boot sinking into the mud.

"Hey did you find a flask in one of the rooms?"

Dean followed behind his brother, affronted.

"Now, Sam, I wouldn't go and steal someone's flask and not tell you about it."

Sam stopped in front of the trough and turned to stare down his brother. Dean smirked, giving a half shrug before pulling out a silver flask from his coat pocket. He took a swig, grimacing a bit at the after taste.

"Woo wee, that's some kind of cowboy moonshine. Take a snort, Sammy."

Sam snatched the flask away from his brother, trying hard to resist the urge to smack him. He dumped the whiskey out onto the ground, ignoring Dean's protests. While the flask drip dried, he dropped his rosary into the water, chanting fluidly in Latin. Dean stood guard, checking the street periodically to make sure no one became too curious as to what they were doing. Once Sam was finished, he plunged the flask into the newly cleansed holy water and filled it up. Dean snatched the flask back, smiling proudly at his brother.

"Now all we have to do is find Shalor."

Dean led the way back onto the boardwalk, and started heading towards the end of town.

"But Dean, we can't just dump holy water on him in front of a bunch of people."

"Leave that to me, Sam."

Sam craned his head back to look over his shoulder at the hotel behind them, nearly tripping over his big feet.

"Shouldn't we go back to his hotel? It seems likely someone there would know where he's at."

"Trust me, Sammy. It doesn't matter if its 2008 or 1863 the best place for info will always be the local watering hole."

Dean stopped abruptly in front of a pair of swinging doors, and Sam skid to a halt behind him. He peered over Dean's shoulder into the dark, smoky room. The loud murmur of voices punctuated by laughter poured out into the street. Inside Sam could see men in dusty clothes lined up against a polished mahogany bar with a few scantily clad women scattered in between. More cowboys were sitting at tables, gambling and talking loudly, while drinking pints of dark amber beer.

While Sam knew Dean's statement to be true he thought it was more likely Dean wanted to see inside a real life saloon. Dean had always wanted to be a cowboy. When they were younger Dean had watched every western movie that came on T.V, emulating John Wayne and Roy Rogers. It was how they learned irrevocable that the good guys always wore the white hats. It was only a few short years later when they found it to be a lie. Evil came in all packages. And sometimes, it even wore a white hat.

Dean smiled widely, entering the bar with a loose-hipped swagger that would make any cowboy who had spent several hours in the saddle proud. Sam followed closely behind, eyes trying to dart everywhere at once. The wood floor creaked beneath his weight and the smell of tobacco was heavy in the air. Walking into the saloon was like walking into the History Channel and he was trying to soak it all in.

On his second pass, Sam saw the man from his dream. He was sitting at a table in the back of the room, looking just as dour as he had in his portrait. Four other men joined him at his table, dressed in dark suits and had a rich arrogant air about them.

Sam nudged Dean in the back who was busy smiling at a pretty little thing that was dressed in a profusion of pink satin and flouncy white lace. All that material did nothing to cover her long legs which were sheathed in white stocking held up by pink beribboned garters. She winked at Dean and giggled before turning towards a persistent cowboy who was trying to buy her a drink.

Dean scowled at Sam, but quickly followed his brother's gaze to the back of the room. Shalor had a long cigar clenched between his teeth and he was grinning wickedly at one of his companions as he raked in a heap of coins and paper bills from the center of the table. The other men at the table grumbled half-heartedly before the next man picked up the deck of cards to deal.

Both brothers observed the two men standing directly behind Shalor. They looked like their faces would break if they smiled, and their hard dark eyes scrapped over everyone in the room constantly. They stood loose-limbed and ready, both hands on their six shooters, eager to draw at a moment's notice.

"That him?" Dean drawled, and Sam could hear the beginnings of his Texas lilt.

"Yah. I've seen Paris Hilton with less protection."

Dean wheeled around, his white teeth flashing.

"When did you see Paris and where the hell was I? I would totally have a chance with a girl like that."

"Dean—"The exasperation was keen in Sam's voice, but all Dean did was roll his eyes before slapping Sam in the arm.

"Leave it to me, Sam. Just get us some cash, would ya?"

Together, they weaved their way through the crowd towards Shalor. It was late afternoon on the day before Christmas Eve. Most of the cow pokes from the nearby ranches had been given the next two days off to celebrate, which they did with enthusiasm at the only saloon in town. It seemed that most of them didn't have families or if they did, their wives wouldn't be able to wrangle them into their Sunday best until the next day when they had to attend services.

The room was crowded and by the time they reached the back table where Shalor sat, Sam was able to pick four pockets filled with holiday bonuses. Sam felt bad about the theft, but he reminded himself it was for a good cause. If Shalor called forth the demon than there was a good chance most of the men in Lawrence wouldn't be alive come Christmas.

"Can anyone join?" Dean drawled and Sam could hear the hint of sarcasm that was sure to get the attention of the men sitting at the table. Sure enough they looked up at him, their stern faces puckering in instant distaste.

"Young man, this is a high stakes game. I don't think you have the cash to play," Shalor replied and his cronies mumbled in agreement.

From behind, Sam passed Dean several bulging money pouches. Dean threw them onto the table, an arrogant smile stretching across his lips.

"It seems to me, money is money, and I've got plenty."

The men looked at the leather pouches on the table, before looking up at Shalor who was obviously their leader. Sam could see a hint of fear in the other men's eyes. They may call Shalor friend to his face, but they didn't make the mistake of turning their backs on him.

Shalor leaned back in his chair, taking a puff from his cigar. He was nearly skeletal he was so thin, but there was a healthy flush in his cheeks and a sparkle in his black eyes. Sam was certain that it wasn't from the glass of brandy sitting in front of him. The man was excited. Exuberant almost. Sam supposed it wasn't everyday you were planning to call up a hell beast from the fiery depths.

Shalor grinned, and it was like watching a skull animate. He swept his thin, long-fingered hand over the table, magnanimously inviting Dean to take a seat. Dean sat with flare. He swept the chair out, swung his leg over and dumped out the bags of money in front of him. Sam edged closer to Dean's back, watching carefully for any sign of a threat. In the darkest corner of the bar, a man sat shrouded under a dusty hat. Sam thought he saw something unusual glitter where the man's eyes should be, but he couldn't ponder it for long. The game in front of him was in full swing.

Dean was playing bigger than life. It was a tactic he didn't usually employ unless he had an ulterior motive. Dean knew how to play poker, and play the game well. When he was playing for cash it was to fund a place to spend the night or to feed his little brother. In those instances he was as serious as priest in a whore house. Dean didn't need to cheat to win. He was that good. But it didn't mean he didn't know all the tricks. And it sure as hell didn't mean he didn't know how _not_ to get caught.

But Sam watched as Dean played sloppy. His movements were too big, almost too obvious. When it was his turn to deal, he slyly tried to pass out cards from the bottom of the deck. Dean was so good that usually Sam wouldn't even be able to tell if he was doing it, but this time he moved a little too slow, and grinned a little too wide.

Sam stepped back to give his brother room to move. He withdrew the flask that was sitting heavy in his pocket and uncapped it. Dean was about to give him the distraction he needed to test if Shalor was indeed demon possessed or just a really, really bad man.

Sure enough one of Shalor's cronies noticed right off what Dean was doing. He threw his hand of cards down on the table and started yelling loudly that Dean was a card shark. Dean was thoroughly affronted, and started yelling back. Shalor's body guards moved closer to him, and Sam began to skirt unnoticed around the table

At the same time a drunken cowboy realized his missing money pouch was one of the ones piled in front of Dean and lunged for him. Dean stood up whip fast, tossing the table aside, spilling drinks and money onto the floor. The crowd went crazy. Saloon girls scooped up the money and shoved it down their bodices while cowboys tried to reach in after it. One of the woman's strays broke, and her plumb breasts bounced into full view of the entire crowd.

The sight distracted the closest body guard to Dean. Taking advantage of the situation, Dean leaned over and planted a fist square in man's jaw, plunging him back into the crowd. The fist fight that broke out was instantaneous. The abused woman was wielding a broken whiskey bottle, and several cowboys were pummeling the bodyguard who had fallen on them. Sam studiously ignored it all. He could hear shattering glass and breaking wood behind him as he made his way closer to his target.

Shalor's other bodyguard was busy trying to push drunken cowboys away from his boss, giving Sam the opportunity to slip in close. Shalor hadn't moved from his seat. He was leaning back, his legs crossed and hands folded in his lap. He was grinning around his cigar, his sharp white teeth biting deep into the brown wrapping. His dark eyes were lit up like bon fires as he watched the destruction around him, his foot kicking up and down with barely contained glee.

He saw Sam coming, but he made no move to stand up or get away. He just watched with his dark, sparkling eyes. Sam drew back his arm and slashed it downwards, sending out a spray of holy water across the man's face.

"Christo!"

Shalor's eyes briefly closed to protect them against the spray of water, but when they opened again they were the same. Dark, gleeful, and human. Sam watched intently for a dark shadow to move beneath his skin or to see the oily black film in his eyes, but he saw nothing more than a human being staring back at him.

Shalor removed the cigar from his mouth, and very slowly smiled up at him. Sam's stomach turned at the pure wickedness he saw there.

"Don't worry, boy. You'll get your chance to see a real life demon soon enough. Of course it will only be for the few seconds it takes for it to gut you."

Shalor replaced the cigar in his mouth and stood up from his seat. He called his bodyguards over and was disappearing out the back door as the Sherriff and his two deputies were entering through the front. Sam searched the crowd for Dean and found him in the center of the room, his face bloody and one eye blackened. His arms were being held by a couple of cowboys, and at least ten more ringed him, waiting for him to try and get away. Sam glanced briefly at the back door, but the exit had been closed off by more cowboys who were staring him down. There was no way he could escape and rescue Dean later.

It didn't take long for the Sheriff to hustle them down a few blocks to the town jailhouse and to lock them up inside a cell. Dean slumped down on the single cot with the hay stuffed mattress, one hand over his swollen eye. He took one look around, absorbing their situation, before glancing up at his brother.

"Well, hell."

"You don't know the half of it." Sam replied while looking at through the steel bars.


	6. Chapter 6

A Christmas Miracle

**A Christmas Miracle**

_**He attracted to his gang some of the most psychopathic killers in American history.**_

--James McPherson on Quantrill

Not So Fun Fact: In the early morning hours of August 21, 1863 William Quantrill, a supposed Confederate sympathizer, led a bloody raid on the Free-State city of Lawrence, Kansas. It was rumored, as he dismounted, he ordered his crew to kill every single man and boy in the town. By the end of the day 180 men and boys lay dead in the street. No mention was made of what happened to the women. You don't have to have a vivid imagination to figure it out.

Again, as a reminder, for the purposes of my story I have changed Quantrill's raid date to December 24, 1863.

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural. Also I have no knowledge of Samuel Colt's family tree. I'm just making it up as I go along.

**Chapter Six**

Sam watched as the last reaches of sunlight dimmed and died through the small square window in his cell. His hands were wrapped around the bars in white-knuckled desperation, his muscles tense down the whole line of his body. His eyes flickered back to the Sheriff who was gliding around the room turning up the oil lamps for light.

The Sheriff was not what Sam imagined an Old West lawman to be. But he supposed it took all kinds to roll over and lick Shalor's boots. The man was slight, almost effeminate in his movements. He had a pencil thin black mustache and perfectly combed oil-slicked hair.

"If you don't let us out of here people are going to die," Sam tried again, keeping his expression as honest as possible.

"Tell it to the circuit judge. He'll be around in January."

"You can't possible keep us in here for weeks for a brawl." Dean shot up from his seat on the cot to stand next to Sam.

They had been trying to talk reason to the Sheriff for the last hour, to no avail. The man just wasn't listening. Either he didn't want to hear what they were saying or he wasn't getting paid to. Sam felt desperation crawl down his spine as another minute ticked by on the grandfather clock tucked away in the corner of the room. If they didn't get out by morning then dozens of people were going to die and evil would be set loose on the world.

The Sheriff stopped in the middle of the room to look Dean square in the eye. He was several inches shorter than the brothers and it was obvious from the malicious glint in his eyes that he took quite a bit of satisfaction in being the one to decide their fate--the keeper of their key.

"I can do anything I like, cowboy. So I suggest you sit back and get comfortable. You are going to be in there for some time."

At that moment the door burst open and a large man forced his way in. The Sheriff spun towards him, but it was too late. A loud boom reverberated through the room, sprawling the Sheriff out on the ground. The man quickly holstered his gun and spun around to slam the door shut, dropping the heavy wooden barricade bar across it.

Dean and Sam hurriedly stepped back from the front of the cell, trying to put distance between them and the unexpected threat. The acrid scent of gunpowder was heavy in the room, making Sam's eyes water as he watched the Sheriff twitch on the ground.

The intruder was dressed in rough looking clothing that was covered in disturbingly dark stains. A dusty hat was pulled low over his brow and he had two gun belts wrapped around his lean hips. One gun was a normal six-shooter, but the second gun was very familiar.

"The Colt," Dean breathed next to Sam, his body ramrod-straight with attention.

"Luther," Sam gasped, his eyes firmly latched on the stranger's face.

It was the same vampire they had met up with and killed a few years back. His square jaw was covered in a bushy unkempt beard and his shaggy dark brown hair was collar length, but there was no mistaking his half-feral eyes. Sam could feel the exact moment Dean recognized him as well. His brother shifted slightly, trying to make himself the bigger target should the vampire make a run at them.

"Do I know you?"

Luther's voice was more guttural than Sam remembered. It didn't have any of its smooth, seductive qualities. It was rough and torn, damaged almost. Sam's eyes were drawn to the bandana wrapped tightly around Luther's neck. It looked like it had been red once, but now it was stained a dark rusty color.

"No. No I don't think you do," Sam replied neutrally, his eyes flickering back up to meet Luther's.

Luther looked away from Sam's keen scrutiny, his eyes lingering over the Sheriff. The man wasn't quiet dead yet. The hole in his chest was oozing bright, crimson blood and Sam could smell its metallic taint in the air mingling with the gun smoke. Sam watched as Luther licked his lips, his entire body loosening before snapping to attention. Luther yanked his eyes away, looking back at the brothers.

"It doesn't matter who you are, only what you are."

"How's that?" Dean asked, his voice hard. Sam wasn't the only one who had noticed Luther's momentary lapse in attention.

"I saw you in the saloon. I saw what you did." Luther was looking straight at Sam as he spoke. It took all of Sam's immense self-control to stand still under Luther's intense scrutiny.

"What about it?" This time Dean was successful in capturing Luther's attention and keeping it. The man frowned at him, his full lips flattening beneath his mustache.

"You're hunters," Luther stated matter-of-factly, stunning both brothers. Dean was the first to recover his equilibrium.

"Is that so?"

"Look!" Luther exploded, stepping forward. Reflexively the brother's stepped back, making room for a fight. "I don't have time to horse around with you both. I know what you are and what you're doing here."

"And how do you know that?" Dean drawled, his eyes glittering. He stepped away from Sam, closer to cell door, keeping Luther's attention riveted on him.

"'Cause it's what I came here to do." Luther's tone was dull compared to the intensity it had been infused with only moments before. He was staring at the Sheriff again, watching as a pool of blood spread out from beneath the fallen man.

Sam was shot through with such a profound sense of understanding he almost went lax with it. He stepped closer to the iron bars, ignoring Dean's warning look.

"Luther, why do you have the Colt?"

Luther circled around the Sheriff's desk. He grabbed the man's jacket off the back of his chair and threw it over his body, covering most of the blood, before turning to answer Sam.

"My daddy's half-brother was the famous gun maker, Samuel Colt. When my older sister was taken by something evil—something that lurked in the dark-- my uncle made a special gun for my father so he could hunt it down and kill it. When he died the gun got passed to me, along with his legacy."

"You're a hunter?" Dean's disbelief and shock was heavy in his voice.

Luther nodded slightly before pausing and shaking his head no.

"I was. I came here to do Shalor in and stop the demon, but I got ambushed outside of town. The last time Shalor tried to call forth the demon he was interrupted and the ritual backfired. This time he has help to keep the townsfolk busy."

"Who ambushed you?" Sam wrapped his sweat-slicked hands around the bars, trying desperately to control the shivers wracking his body.

"Quantrill, a blood-thirsty murderer. His men are camped outside of town. They jumped me last night when I was riding in." Luther cut his eyes away to stare out the darkened window. His hands were clenched at his sides, and although he was very studiously not looking at the Sheriff his entire body was pitched in that direction. "They're not human. At least not Quantrill and his lieutenants. I think the rest of his band might just be men, but he's something else."

"A vampire," Sam said very softly and Luther stiffened as if it was an assault. Beside Sam, Dean shifted his weight away.

"I'm still me, you know. I have all my memories, all my same thoughts, but there is none of the same emotion behind them. It's like with every passing hour I'm losing a piece of me. The part of me that makes me who I am. The part that makes me a hunter."

"Your humanity."

Luther shrugged and this time he made no effort to hide the fact he was drawn to the blood on the ground. He scrapped his boot through it, watching as the bright red paint smeared across the wooden floorboards.

"I remember what I came here to do. And I know it's important, but I just can't seem to find the desire to do anything about it. I'm afraid I'll forget entirely by the time I need to act."

Luther turned away from them, unbuckling his gun belt. He laid the Colt across the Sheriff's desk almost reverently. He stood there, staring at it for what seemed to be an eternity.

"When I saw you two today in the Saloon, I knew I had found salvation. Two hunters to replace one fallen. It has to be God's plan." He turned away from the desk and in his hand he had a heavy steel ring which dangled a pair of keys.

"Do you really believe that?" Dean's eyes burned with intensity and Luther's hand tightened around the ring.

"I have to believe in something. Not to, is to only see the darkness."

Luther moved closer to the cell, but not quite into reaching distance. He dropped the keys at his feet with a loud clank. Even if they squatted down, they wouldn't be able to reach them. Neither brother was worried. What may seem impossible to other people were just inconveniences to them.

"Luther," Sam said softly, a large dose of warning in his voice.

Luther smiled wryly at him.

"I just don't think I'm ready yet. There's still too much to do in this world. Too much to see."

"But you are becoming the very thing you hunt," Sam pleaded with desperation. As much as he understood the drive to live, the thought of the hundreds of people Luther would murder before they would be able to stop him in the future made his gut twist.

Luther shrugged and stepped away. "I suppose it's time to see the other half of the coin. Besides without evil there cannot be good now can there. Shalor is going to offer himself up to the demon as a vessel, so remember, let him summon the fiend first then shoot him with the pistol. Only then can you destroy them both."

Luther wheeled around on his booted heels and headed quickly for the door.

"We'll be seeing you, Luther," Dean promised, his voice deep and dark.

Luther cocked his head to the side, glancing back at them from the corner of his eye.

"I figured when you called me by name and recognized the Colt. But that's all God's plan, isn't it?" Luther didn't wait for a reply. One second he was by the bolted door, and the next he was disappearing into the night. Sam watched him go, sadness thick inside him. Dean didn't bother to watch. He was already unlacing his belt from his pants and was using it to wrangle the keys closer to him.

"Don't worry about it, Sam. We have bigger fish to fry." Dean told his brother absently, knowing what he was thinking.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

Dean stretched out his arm, straining through the bars and wrapped his fingers around the steel ring. He dragged the keys closer and stood up, waggling his eyebrows victoriously.

"Besides, it's all a part of _The Plan_." Dean dropped his voice an octave, making light of all the curious string of events leading them to this moment. To contemplate that something bigger was at work was to slowly drive themselves insane.

Sam smiled slightly at his brother, but he couldn't stop himself from staring out into the darkness and the coldness it brought.


	7. Chapter 7

Many thanks to Starliteyes for looking this over for me!

**A Christmas Miracle**

Chapter Seven

Getting out of the locked jail cell was stupid easy. Disappearing into the darkness was harder. Of course, it was their luck that one of the deputies saw them as they stepped out of the jail house. Dean was still buckling on the gun belt with the Colt when shouts rang out.

Sam and Dean bolted from the building, circling around to run out into the prairie surrounding the town. It was dark, and the moon hadn't yet risen. They dodged around boulders, and jumped over shrub brush, Dean leading the way. A gun shot echoed loud and sharp across the open plain, and something heavy stumbled against Dean's back. He dug his heels into the soft ground, holding himself and the weight leaning against him upright.

"Sam!"

"I'm alright," Sam slurred and Dean could hear the near unconsciousness in his voice. Dean looped one arm beneath Sam's shoulder and hooked his hand in his brother's belt. He hauled him up, bearing most of his weight as he half-dragged him across the uneven ground. Behind him he could hear the signs of men in pursuit, and he tried to tug Sam into a faster pace.

"Mister Winchester."

The tiny, girlish voice immediately snagged Dean's attention. He whirled towards the sound, one hand on his brother, the other on the Colt. Dean narrowed his eyes, peering into the darkness. Half-hidden behind stubby grove of trees was a little girl flanked by two horses. She stepped out of the darkness, leading the horses with her. She couldn't be more than ten, her eyes and teeth white against her black skin.

"Who are you?" Dean growled, his grip never loosening from the gun. Appearances he knew could be deceiving. The girl in front of him may look like a child, but it wouldn't be the first time evil took on the guise of innocence.

"My mother sent me to fetch you," the girl replied urgently, her eyes darting towards the sound of rising voices closing in on them.

"And who's your mother?" Dean stepped closer to her, hedging his bets that she was less of a risk than the men behind him. Besides, she had something he desperately needed—horses. Sam was doing his best to stay upright, but with every second his strength was waning. Dean didn't know how badly he was shot. He needed to get him some place safe where he could take a look and get him fixed up, and he needed to do it before it was too late. His stomach clenched at the thought, and he felt his face harden.

The little girl flinched and stepped back. She swallowed hard before, reaching out to hand Dean one of the horse's leads.

"Missouri Mosely," the little girl replied before hurry to the side of the smaller horse. She expertly hauled herself up into the saddle, patiently waiting for Dean.

Dean recovered from his shock, figuring that things couldn't get stranger. Oddly, enough the little girl's response calmed him. The appearance of Missouri in nineteenth century Kansas was almost a relief.

It took a great deal of coaxing, but Dean was able to get Sam up in the saddle behind him. Once he was settled, the little girl took off at a fast clip, forcing Dean to keep up with her. Sam leaned heavy against Dean's back, wrapping his long arms around his waist and clamping his hands together. A failsafe in case he passed out. Hopefully his hands would stay locked together enough to keep him in the saddle. Dean held his brother's knotted hands tightly against his rigid stomach, trying really hard not to pray and ignoring the few, 'Please no, God. Not agains,' that slipped out.

They traveled for what seemed to be hours, but couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. The little girl led them down into a ravine, the entrance of which was barely visible to Dean even as he passed through it. She took a twisting path towards the floor of the canyon, never once looking back to see if they followed safely. Once at the bottom she reined up next to a small structure. Dean had to look twice to realize it was an adobe cabin. It looked like it was carved right out of the hillside. It had a sod roof covered in grass, camouflaging it from above, and red rock walls.

The little girl dismounted, leaving the reins trailing on the ground. She flew into the house, calling for her Mama on the way in. Dean followed, dragging his little brother down from the saddle. They were halfway to the cabin when the door flew open and yellow lamplight spilled across the stoop. A dark female figure stood in the light, but Dean couldn't make out any of her features that were cast in shadows.

"Hurry up now. Get him inside."

The female voice didn't sound anything like Missouri's. It was low and breathless with an exotic lilt that Dean couldn't quite place. It was obvious her first language wasn't English, but her accent was completely foreign to Dean.

He muscled Sam inside, seeing a rough-hewn wooden table in front of him that had been cleared.

"Put him up there so I can work on him."

Dean didn't hesitate. He was now shouldering nearly all of Sam's weight, and he knew he had to get him prone immediately before they both ended up sprawled on the floor.

The woman circled around to the other side of the table, and Dean could finally see her face. Her skin was so black it was nearly obsidian. Her high cheekbones were stark against her angular face, and her wide-set eyes were intelligent, but Dean could see the darkness of hardship in their depths. Her hair was close-cut to her head, and she was dressed in a plain brown skirt and red bodice. She was young. Much too young to be the mother of the girl that led him there.

"Where's Missouri," Dean demanded, looking around the small cabin. There was only one room. A fire burned cheerily in the fireplace, and a rocking chair sat before it. In the corner was a single wide bed, neatly made. The only other piece of furniture was the kitchen table Sam was sprawled across and two chairs tucked to the side.

"I am Missouri," the woman replied as she tore away Sam's shirt. The loud rending sound jerked Dean to attention and he swung his eyes back to Sam. There was no wound on Sam's chest, but blood was pooling beneath him on the table.

"Help me to turn him over."

She was already tugging Sam's shoulder towards her, and Dean leaned over to help angle the rest of Sam's body to flip him. Once he was on his stomach, they were able to see the ragged wound on his shoulder. Sam's back was covered in blood, and the woman took a rag from the bowl of water the little girl quietly provided to wash him down.

"You're not Missouri," Dean growled, demanding an explanation. Sam's wound looked horrible and it made Dean feel even worse. Whenever Sam was hurt it made Dean feel out of control and panicked. He couldn't see Sam dead again. He couldn't live through that.

"You've seen Alouroua."

The question was so unexpected that it caught Dean off guard.

"Who?"

"Alouroua. The guardian of the crossroad. You made a pact, yes?"

Dean staggered under the weight of his surprise. And he thought his day couldn't get any weirder.

"How did you know that?" Dean asked sharply, before another idea hit him. He drew the gun from his holster lightning fast, pointing it square at her heart. "You couldn't know that, unless you're a demon."

The little girl whimpered in the corner but the woman remained unphased. Her eyes flickered briefly to the gun before she bent over to examine Sam's wound.

"The bullet is deep. I will have to dig it out."

"Christo," Dean spat, his gun unwavering.

Her features never changed and her eyes remained dark brown. She motioned for her daughter to come closer with her tools. The little girl came reluctantly, handing her mother a roll of light tan leather.

"I am no demon, Dean Winchester. The stain of your pact darkens your soul's brightness."

The barrel of the gun quivered slightly before steadying out. Dean's lips tightened and he kept his bead on her heart.

"Who the hell are you, lady?"

"As I said. I am Missouri Mosely. And this is my daughter, Kansas."

She unrolled the leather, revealing a gruesome array of steel tools. Very carefully she washed them in hot water and poured whiskey over each.

"I need you to hold his shoulders down. If he moves while I am trying to remove the bullet, it will damage him more."

Dean stared at her a moment longer, searching her eyes. She met his gaze squarely, never looking away. Finally a long drawn-out moan from his brother forced his hand. He holstered the Colt, taking off his jacket and hat, before moving to the head of the table. With barely steady hands, he braced his weight on Sam's shoulders, holding him flat against the table.

"I don't understand."

Missouri picked up her tools, moving fluidly with an easy grace that reminded Dean of running water. She never looked up at Dean, instead she kept her attention squarely on Sam as she slowly extracted the bullet from his shoulder.

"When I was brought here, my new master named me after my new home. My slave state."

Dean was struck with the unrealism of it all. She must be the great-great-grandmother of the Missouri he knew. A slave. Her accent made sense to him now. He could hear the hint of Caribbean in it. Undistracted he looked around the room once again. Now he saw the fetishes that hung from the ceiling and the drawings etched into the clay-packed floor. Goofer dust lined the window ledge and the doorway. Kansas was standing at Sam's feet, waving a wad of incense in the air. The scent was eye-watering. The magic she was using was ancient, tribal. Not quiet Voodaun yet. It was still heavily rooted in its African origins.

Dean looked at her with new eyes, and again he was struck by how young she was. Far too young to have a ten-year-old daughter, or to be performing surgery on his brother for that matter. Dean watched as she moved with competence. She removed the lead ball effortlessly, with barely a whimper from Sam. She cleansed the wound, packing it with herbs as her daughter brushed the smoke from the incense over Sam's body.

"Kansas isn't really your daughter, is she?"

For the first time, Missouri's eyes flickered. Dean ruffled her, but she covered it up smoothly. He could tell that she was preparing to lie, but at the same moment he saw, by the set of her shoulders when she decided to tell him the truth instead.

"My master forced himself upon me when I wasn't much older than Kansas, but in return he gave me something beautiful."

She took her daughter's hand and smiled angelically at her. Side by side, Dean could see the differences between them. Kansas' skin was lighter, the color of coffee with just a hint of cream added. Her long hair was smoother than her mothers, hanging to her mid-back. Kansas smiled back, and Dean could see love in their faces.

"When Kansas was just a baby, my master announced he was to sell her to another plantation. He felt her presence distracted me from my _duties_. My heart broke at his words, but then I put it back together, bandaging it with determination. I took my baby and ran. I ran as hard and as fast as I could, but it wasn't enough. In the woods by the river that separates Missouri and Kansas the baying of dogs ran me to ground. I fell to my knees and I looked up at the huge moon and I prayed. I prayed for the life of my daughter. I prayed for her future. I prayed for salvation. And just when I thought there was none to be had, and angel came down to speak to me."

"An angel?" Dean couldn't hide the disbelief in his voice. Missouri smiled at him, and Dean didn't think he had ever seen something so lovely.

"I use the word angel because it is the closest in your language to describe it. The one who came to me was Olorun. A god. The god of destiny, foresight and truth. He is the one who aids you when the odds are against you."

"An African god."

Missouri nodded in agreement. While she spoke she finished dressing Sam's wounds, and with her daughter's help she made a pallet in front of the fireplace. She motioned to Dean and he helped her to lay Sam out in front of the fire.

"He raised the mists from the river, concealing me from my pursuers. He led me to safety on the other side and lay a blessing on my daughter's head. At that moment, I renamed my daughter Kansas in honor of the free state we escaped to. All he asked in return was for me to help two boys when they needed it the most. He told me when and where you would be. I have waited nine years for you Dean Winchester. Now my debt is almost paid."

"Whoa. Wait are you telling me that some African god helped you escape from your slave master, then told you to be on the look-out for some men from the future? Why would some foreign god be interested in me? For that matter, are you sure it was a god and not some demon. Cause let me tell you lady, the only beings looking for a piece of me are the down and dirty ones."

She smiled at Dean before checking Sam's forehead. A frown tugged the corners of her mouth down, and Dean followed suit.

"He has a fever."

Dean moved closer to his brother, as if his physical presence could chase away infection.

"Why hasn't he woken up yet?"

"He won't awaken until sunrise."

"What?" Dean exclaimed. Sam very clearly told him that Shalor would be summoning the demon in the still dark morning hours. If he was going to stop Shalor and kill the demon he needed his trusty sidekick brother. He needed to know Sam was going to be all right.

"This demon you will fight is an awful creature. He is with limitless life. Should you kill him on this mortal plane he will continue to exist on the ethereal one. He will be returned to Hell where he will wait to be summoned again."

Dean fingered the Colt still strapped to his thigh.

"This gun can kill anything."

"That is true. It can kill anything physical, but if you want to eradicate this demon entirely then you have to kill him spiritually as well."

Dean sighed heavily, frustrated and tired. Missouri knelt on the floor, Sam's head between her knees.

"And how do I do that?"

"You must go and kill his physical body. Once you have done so, then it will be Sam's turn."

Dean's eyes sharpened on Missouri. She was running her fingers through the hair at Sam's temples. Kansas stood nearby, a small square piece of cloth in her hands. Missouri came away with a few strands of Sam's hair twined in her fingers, and very carefully she placed them on the cloth her daughter held.

"What do you mean, Sam's turn?" Dean spat, edging closer to the woman. He was half-tempted to swat her away from his brother, but at the same time he was afraid too. He didn't know if what she was doing was helping him, but so far she hadn't hurt him either.

"Only Sam can fight him on the spiritual plane. Once the demon's essence is freed from his physical body, he will be vulnerable before he can return through the gateway to Hell. It is then that Sam will finish him."

"And how exactly will Sam know how to do this?" Dean watched as the two females drew more symbols around Sam's body, and chanted softly beneath their breath.

"I will show him the path. Once he arrives at the destination, he will know what to do. Your brother is a fighter, yes? Together you will defeat this demon and set right what was once wrong."

"This is too much. We can't possibly do this."

Both Missouri and Kansas stopped what they were doing to smile up at him. He lost his breath at the sheer beauty of it. He stood mesmerized by it, listening to the rough breathing of his brother and the crackling of the fire behind him.

"Do not worry, Dean Winchester. You must have faith."


	8. Chapter 8

A Christmas Miracle

Chapter Eight

Dean pressed his back flat against the wall. He could feel the sharp edge of the custom wainscoting cut into the dip of his lower back. Cold beads of sweat rolled down his ribs and he shivered slightly at the sensation. The last time he had been this nervous he was sixteen and a werewolf was stalking him. Now he was doing the stalking, but for the first time in his life he was alone with no father or brother to back him up, and the monster in the dark was so much worse than a dumb, feral breast. A demon was cunning prey at any given time; a demon bent on entering this dimension was even more dangerous.

Dean peeked his head around the corner, glancing down the long hallway leading to room 506. Everything was deathly quiet. While Dean had crept through the dark outside he had been anxiously aware of the stillness. Not one animal stirred. No mice scurrying or owls hunting, just an intense silence lying heavily over the entire area like a sodden, woolen blanket. Out in the darkness Dean knew the vampires were gathering to stand sentinel over the coming ritual. Their reward for a job well done would be the innocent townspeople of Lawrence.

Dean's lips tightened as he watched for any movement. To save his home he had to make sure that the demon never made its way out of the hotel. He slipped around the corner and prowled down the hall. The oil lamps were evenly spaced, creating pools of orange light which Dean stealthily avoided. He made his way silently to the door, pressing his ear to the green-painted wood to listen. Inside he could hear one voice raised in fervent chanting. Dean's Latin wasn't as good as Sam's but he knew a crescendo when he heard one. Shalor was about to begin his finale and the demon was going to make his grand entrance.

Dean slid the Colt from its holster at his thigh and quietly turned the door knob, confident Shalor would be too absorbed in his ritual to notice him enter. The door cracked open and Dean peered inside. Shalor stood in the middle of the room Dean and Sam had appeared in early in the day, only now the wall that hid the cornerstone was completely torn away. The brick wall and the wooden floor surrounding Shalor were covered in intricate curving symbols and diagrams. Shalor was in the center of a ring of black candles, casting him in a wicked light of half shadows. He was shirtless and his concave, skeletal chest heaved with exertion. He chanted loudly, raising his arms to the ceiling and his ribs and spine stood out starkly under his snake-belly white skin.

The room smelled of incense, beeswax and sweat. Shalor's white hair was plastered to his skull, and sweat made the pale skin on his back gleam. Dean slipped into the room behind the mad man, staying in the shadows. His finger tightened over the trigger of the Colt, but he didn't raise his arm to fire. Every fiber of Dean's being screamed to shoot Shalor, but Luther's warning rang hollow in his head. To destroy the demon he had to wait until it resided in its host. Dean mulled over Missouri's earlier words. She told him shooting the demon wouldn't be enough to kill it. Once Dean did his part here, Sam would have another roll to play in the ethereal plane. Dean didn't know if he believed in all that crap, but for a man who was going to Hell in a few short months he figured he didn't have any headway to say shit.

Shalor's chanting grew louder until his rough-worn voice cracked under the strain. Cold sweat gathered under Dean's arms and he kept his eyes riveted on the brick wall were the demon would soon appear. Shalor's voice dropped away and silence crashed down onto the room. Dean stood as still as possible afraid his presence would be given away in the lingering stillness. Shalor remained facing the wall expectantly, waiting long minutes for the demon to appear.

Dean fought the urge to twitch. Patience had never been his strong suit and his father had spent many long nights lecturing Dean on the finer art of waiting for your prey.

Suddenly sound burst into the room like a concussion blast. Dean was pressed into the wall he was standing against his head racking loudly on the wood. Furniture was thrown around the room like paper in a tornado, and with the whipping wind came the shrieking of thousands of souls. The horrendous noise pierced Deans ears until they bled and rank suffer breath forced its way down his throat and into his lungs burning them up from the inside out. Dean fell to his knees choking on his own tongue, fighting for clean air to breathe.

Through bloodshot eyes he watched as Shalor stood amid the onslaught utterly unaffected. His black ritual candles flared to the ceiling and the brick wall shuddered and heaved with unseen force. A large section shifted and slid back revealing a dark maw ringed with jagged, red-bricked teeth. Bright orange fire billowed out from the darkness, crawling up the walls and along the hardwood floor. The room filled with black smoke until Dean's eyes steamed with it. He fell prone on his belly, trying to stay beneath the oxygen-sucking fire. Searing heat pressed down on his back and he was thankful for the thick leather duster he wore, but he could feel the skin blister on his bare neck. He lost sight of Shalor, so determinately he belly-crawled closer, ignoring the siren-loud voice in his head screaming at him to run away.

Through the smoke and flames, Dean found Shalor still standing in the circle of fire, his arms raised in worship.

''Shalor!'' Dean choked out, lifting the immensely heavy weight of the Colt.

The wooden grip was searingly hot, and Dean could only imagine how scalding the metal barrel must be. The six chambered bullets should have already exploded, but they had been created to kill demons and to withstand their hellish heat. Slowly, Shalor lowered his arms, his head swiveling around until the boney point of his chin was centered between his wing-like shoulder blades. The grotesque snapping of delicate neck bones could be heard over the crackle of the hungry blaze. Fire-yellow eyes stared down at Dean who was sprawled on his belly at the demon's feet. Its lips stretched unnaturally apart, the upraised corners nearly reaching its eyes as it smiled at Dean with a mouth full of canines.

Though the face was different and its fresh-from-Hell grin was more terrifying, Dean would recognize those yellow eyes anywhere. It was Azazel, the yellow-eyed sonovabitch that had destroyed his entire family and ruined his life. And now Dean was there for its birth, for its entrance into the mortal world. The irony was not lost on Dean as his own grin stretched wide on his fire-chapped lips.

"Go back to Hell, you bastard. You're not wanted here.''

Smoke drifted across his eyes as he squeezed the trigger. A loud boom reverberated in the room followed by the shattering of glass. The smoke cleared and Dean blinked his eyes rapidly to focus on the spot where Shalor had stood. Dean coughed, scanning the room with blurry eyes. All the smoke and flames were drawn to the broken window facing the street, momentarily clearing the room enough for Dean to struggle to his feet.

The Demon was gone, escaping out of the fifth story window, and by the lack of blood on the floor, he wasn't even wounded. Dean growled in frustration, the sound raw and primal. Quickly he crawled to the doorway, escaping the room while he still could.

Once in the hallway he was able to draw a full lungful of air, but it still held the taint of acrid sulfer. For the moment the fire was contained in the room, but it wouldn't be long before the wooden building burned to the ground.

''Fire," Dean yelled, his throat burning.

He pounded on doors as he ran down the hall, not stopping to give an explanation. Smoke was drifting into the corridor and people were quick to gather their families and run for the stairs. Dean pulled aside a sun-toughened man, swinging him around so they were facing each other. The man scowled, but Dean didn't have time for pleasantries.

''Clear out all the people from the other floors."

The man's mutinous expression cleared and he nodded once in curt understanding.

Dean let him go, racing for the back stairs. If he didn't stop the demon here and now, more people would die than just a handful in a hotel.

He burst out the back door and spun around to run into the ally leading to the main drag. As he turned the corner, Dean skid to an abrupt stop, nearly tripping over a pile of debris. A darkened figure stood between him and the street. He was dressed in a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat shadowed his eyes, reminding Dean that his had been lost in the hotel room. The firelight wreathing the stranger made it easy for Dean to tell it wasn't Shalor.

Glass shattered above them as the fire burst from one of the upstairs rooms. Dean raised his arm to shield his uncovered head, but the stranger made no move to protect himself from the raining shards. He watched with eyes gleaming red in the firelight. Dean straightened as he realized he was facing one of Shalor's vampire watchdogs.

Quantrill." Dean breathed, realizing for the first time that the din of screams echoing in the night air were from more than just the hotel residents. Gun fire boomed, and men yelled excitedly as women and children screamed in fright. When the demonic fire erupted from the hotel the vampires had taken it as a signal to collect their payment of blood.

The man smiled and Dean could see the slickly gleam of sharp pearl teeth. Quantrill drew back his blood-stained duster to reveal his fancy silver-plated pistol strapped to his leg. Dean swallowed hard, mimicking Quantrill's movement. He had holstered the Colt while ushering people into the hall. The cool night air had cooled the weapon, but Dean could still feel its warmth as his knuckles brushed over the worn, wooden grip.

Dean had been in more gun fights in his life than he would like to rehash, but he had always ducked and covered before returning fire, like John had taught him. He had never openly faced a man and tried to beat him at a draw. He had practiced at playing Cowboy when he was a kid, but that was long ago when his life wasn't riding on lightning quick reflexes.

Dean watch Quantrill's eyes, but all they revealed was a flicker of red. Never a patient man, Dean decided to do what he did best; act. Not a glimmer of emotion passed his poker-cool face as he quickly drew the Colt. Quantrill was surprised, but he recovered and drew his pistol just as fast.

Two gunshots rang out, mingling with the multitude of others. Quantrill's vampire reflexes made him quicker than Dean, but years of hunting made Dean more accurate.

Quantrill's bullet grazed Dean's arm, trailing fire in its wake. In the alleyway, the dark figure crumpled at Dean's feet, his red eyes returning to brown. A single trail of blood dripped off his temple from the perfect bullet hole in his head. Shadows dance in the orange firelight and the screams from main street sounded like the depths of Hell from which the Demon had escaped.

Dean let out a shuddering breath, deeply surprised to be the one still standing. He shook of the lingering sense of something greater, and grimly holstered his weapon. The one thing Dean knew for sure was that vampires were pack driven. Without their leader they would slink away like kicked dogs, their tails between their legs.

Dean withdrew his long Bowie knife he was never without. With a grimace of distaste, Dean straddled Quantrill's body cutting through bone and sinew until the vampire's head gave way with a wet pop. Dean grabbed a fistful of hair, raising the severed head high. Determinedly, Dean stalked out of the alley and onto main street. It was complete chaos. Windows were broken out of the general stores, bodies lay bloody and torn in the street, women were running half-naked from lust maddened pursuers as they screamed for their dead husbands to help them. The entire horrifying event was back-dropped by the malicious burning fire that made the macabre scene even more demonic.

Dean lifted the head higher, walking down the middle of the street. It wasn't long, before the gang noticed fresh blood. They raced forward and Dean braced himself for an attack, but they skid to a stop before reaching him. Their feral eyes grew wide as they recognized the head being carried by the blood-splatter stranger. They backed away subdued, abandoning their terrorized victims. They disappeared into darkened alleys, their red eyes glinting from the shadows before extinguishing completely.

Dean dropped the head at his feet, his shoulders dropping as he realized he had lost track of the demon-possessed madman he was hunting. The screams around him died down to heart wrenching sobs and the fire crackled loudly. Unable to mourn or there would be more to loses, the survivors of the attack quickly organized a water line to control the fire before it spread to the neighboring buildings. Dean was amazed at their resilience and their sense of community as they fought to save each other.

A woman's scream pierced the night followed by a baby's wail. Dean spun on his

heel, knowing instinctively it had to be the demon. He ran down the street, looking for a trail to follow. The door of a small cottage on a side street was singed black with fire and the infant's cry was nearly deafening. Dean burst into the house, following the cries to a small room in the back. The shirtless figure of Shalor stood over a hand-carved, wooden crib as he chuckled madly. Sobs drew Dean's attention to the ceiling. Above him splayed out in sacrifice, hovered a woman who only had eyes for her endangered baby. The cold edge of memory sliced across Dean's brain and his stomach roiled in response. All Dean could see was the face of his mother before John had pushed him from the nursery thrusting little Sammy into his too-young arms.

Dean's hand shook as he took a bead on the demons back.

"Never! It will never happen," he growled forcefully.

The demon spun to face him, but it was too late. The bullet lodged itself in Shalor's heart, stopping the demon cold. As the man collapsed onto the ground, dead demon smoke wisped from his mouth. The woman fell to the floor with a loud thud, jerking Dean out of his daze. He dropped the Colt and hurried over to help her up, but she pushed him away. She limped over to her baby's crib, hauling the squealing infant up into her arms to hug him close, sobbing desperately.

Unnoticed Dean faded back, stopping to pick up the gun. He swiped his arm over his eyes, ignoring the tears pouring down his face as he disappeared into the darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

A Christmas Miracle

Chapter Nine

The landscape was painted in hues of nightmare black and blood-red. The distant horizon was lit up by orange fire melting away into rotten honey. The road beneath Sam's bare feet was scalding hot, like asphalt on a summer day. He looked down into the eyes of a petrified soul, trapped beneath a road of frozen fire. The edges licked up, creating divots and grooves, thin tongues that sliced his feet.

The heat was like a blowtorch. It shriveled his skin, drying up his mouth and eyes, until he felt like a coarse husk of brittle grass. His straw hair brushed his chapped cheeks and when he breathed in through his nose it felt like a thousand bees were stinging his nostrils. Behind him he was leaving a trail of brackish blood, made thicker with each step he took. Every time he lifted his foot, the blood he left behind sucked at the raw edges of his flesh, desperately trying to pull him into purgatory beneath the hard orange glass of the road. He resisted, easily at first then forcefully as he walked further along.

He came to a bridge that arched over molten lava. It swept by like a rushing river and Sam could see pale hands reaching outwards, wanting to be saved from eternal hellfire. Faces burst to the top, mouths wrenched open in endless screams before disappearing beneath fiery waves. Sam tilted his head to the side, listening for their cries, but all he could hear was a distant hum which was barely discernable over the din of unnatural silence that seemed to perforate the entire world.

At the highest point of the arch a dark figure hovered. It had no substance, just smoke held together in a loose approximation of a man's form. Black mist swirled where its feet should have been and it had tentacles more than arms. Though the figure wasn't familiar, Sam had a startling moment of clarity. He knew the creature across from him as intimately as he knew his own heart.

"Azazel," he breathed, and the hum in the back of his head became a fraction louder.

The figure turned, its sickly yellow eyes blazing clearly from the depths of shadow it cloaked itself in. It stared at Sam for long moments, its head slowly cocking to the side as if it was studying a complex math problem.

"You are—"The demon whispered, its voice harsh to Sam's ears. Sam expected the demon to know him, to recognize him for what he was, but then Sam remembered he was in The Before. Before the demon came. Before he was born. Before his mother was murdered. Before everything had been destroyed on a demon's whim.

"Perfect."

The demon's voice dropped an octave, sliding around Sam's skin in a pervert's caress. Sam's flesh shrunk on his bones in repulsion and he had to fight the urge to step back. The demon might not recognize Sam for who he was, but he saw what he was. And what the demon saw inside of him made Sam sick to his stomach.

The demon stepped towards him, and Sam stepped back, the frozen fire sucking at his heels. They stopped, staring at each across the distance. Azazel's eyes were lit up with something close to lust, and the sickness in Sam's stomach grew.

"If I could dream, it would be of you."

The demon's tentacle arms lengthened until they dragged across the ground. Obsidian claws formed from the smoke and they tapped a delicate rhythm on the orange glass. With every tap, they edged a tiny bit closer.

Tap, tap, tap.

Sam forced himself to be still, to be unafraid. The bridge the demon stood upon was nothing more than a wave of frozen fire over molten lava. More lost souls breached the surface of liquid flame, flailing for purchase before the rushing currant dragged them away. As Sam watched, a loose plan formed in the back of his mind where the steady hum was gaining momentum.

Sam met the demon's eyes, keeping him focused on his face and not his movement.

"What is it that you want to create in the human world, Azazel? What is your dream?" Sam moved closer to the bridge, and the tapping of obsidian claws grew louder.

"My dream is you. So beautiful. So powerful. Able to move between worlds with fluid ease. Unstoppable. Unbeatable. The ultimate violation of _His_ creation." Azazel spat, the last his eyes shifting to the ground, sliding over Sam's feet.

His yellow eyes darted up, clashing with Sam's human gaze. The black smoke cleared for a moment, and Sam could see shock and surprise in the demon's eyes. As he had spoke, Sam had edged his way closer, until one foot rested on the bridge.

"No!" The demon shouted, his voice reverberating across the landscape bell tower loud and just as excruciating. Sam dropped to his knees, his hands covering his bleeding ears.

"No! You shall not pass. Only those with infernal blood may cross the Devil's Bridge. Mortals shall be pulled into oblivion!"

Azazel lashed out a tentacle, a single claw slicing Sam across the cheek. Fire blossom where it wounded him and Sam could feel poison spreading through his veins, numbing his cheek and swelling his lips. A wall sprouted from the ground with dangerous speed, separating him from the demon and throwing Sam backwards. He rolled away, gaining his feet quickly, years of training coming to bear. As he stood, he looked around. The hellish landscape was gone, replaced with sage and cream pinstriped walls, and thick, soft carpeting between his toes. He spun around, seeing a figure tucked into a corner, gently rocking, singing a lilting melody, so quiet no words could be made out.

Sam stood in middle of the nursery he remembered from his nightmares. At any moment he expected it to burst into flames. He was unsurprised when the woman in the corner gave no indication he was there. He didn't expect Mary to react to him. She never did in her dreams. She never acknowledged him as he came and went. He edged closer, peering down at the bundle she held against her chest, but it was tightly wrapped in a blue blanket.

The hum in the back of Sam's head was becoming a dull roar. He could barely hear his thoughts above the steady tumult. Suddenly, Mary lifted her face, her striking blue eyes piercing Sam all the way into his soul. He stared into them, falling forward into the endless depths. He was reminded of Jessica's clear blue eyes and how he would stare into them for hours on end. He was reminded of the picnic they had taken at the beach. How they had swam in the cold blue waters of the pacific, laughing the entire day away. Sam was reminded of water. Miles upon miles of crystal clear, cold, blue water.

"Do you want to see him? He's so perfect."

Sam nodded unable to speak. She pulled the sucking babe away from her breast with a wet pop, and in the shadowed room, Sam could make out streaks of black on her white skin. She tilted the bundle towards him, allowing the blanket to fall open to reveal the infant. Inside the wrapping was a hideous monster with blackened flesh with flailing arms that ending in tiny claws. It squalled in discontent, and Sam could see its mouth was lined with sharp kitten teeth.

Mary held the demon baby in outstretched arms, and contented smile curving her pink bow lips.

"Isn't he the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? Our little Sam. Our boy king."

The baby's eyes opened, and it stared at Sam with one golden and one human hazel eye.

"No. It's not true."

Sam stumbled back, horror-struck. He bolted out the doorway and fell into a sea of blinding light. He blinked away the sun, focusing on the sensations on his skin. He was lying on his back, something soft and damp cradling him. He could smell salt in the air and the dull crash in the back of his head was now roaring to be heard. Waves pounded the beach and seagulls cried. Next to him he heard laughter, then a shadowy form leaned over him, blotting out the sun.

"Are you going to lay there all day, sleepy head? There are things to do, you know."

Sam felt all the tension in his body melt away at the teasing voice that soothed over his fire-chapped skin. He opened his eyes, a lazy smile stretching across his lips as he gazed into Jess's blue eyes.

"I can't think of anything I would rather be doing." He looped his long arms around her narrow waist, pulling her down onto his wide chest. She collapsed with a giggle, straddling him so she could perch onto of him like a contented cat.

"Can't you?" She asked, smiling gleefully at his attention.

He pursed his lips as though in deep thought while he plunged his hands into her long blonde hair. He wrapped the silken strands around his fingers, pulling her down until their lips hovered a fraction apart.

"Nope," he whispered, lifting his head to seal his lips over hers. Her touch was liquid cool against his burning skin; her lips were a refreshing drink of water. The melted into each other, merging in perfection until Sam vowed to never let her go.

Breathlessly she reared back, and Sam was forced to release her hair. She planted her delicate hands in the middle of his chest, keeping him at bay as she laughed down at him.

"Come on, Sam. You have things to do."

"Like what?" he groused.

"Destroying the world, of course." Jess swept her hand across the fiery landscape, showing Sam the smoking ruin of the ocean side town. Sam scrambled up, dumping Jessica unceremoniously onto the ground. Destruction was everywhere. Buildings were toppled; fires burned endlessly, blood streamed through the streets. None of it caught Sam's eyes. Instead he stared out into the sea of molten fire, and the orange waves that beat the glass beach.

"Something is wrong," he muttered to himself, staring at the crackling ocean. The roar in his mind was fading to a hum and he scrambled to recapture it.

"Nothing is wrong, Sam. Everything is as it should be," Jess replied, her hand feather-light on his forearm.

"No, the ocean—"He turned to face her, and fell into the depthless blue of her eyes. As he stared at her the roar returned, and he remembered what he had forgotten. "It should be water. All of it. It needs to be water."

Jess tilted her head to the side, watching him with an amused tilt to her lips. Slowly she shook her head, her eyes hooding in disappointment, and Sam was filled with the crushing belief that he was wrong. She receded from him, removing her light touch from his arm and sliding backwards away from him. The light from the fires dimmed, and darkness stretched a clawed hand over the sky. Stars fell out of the sky, lading on the dirt next to Sam's feet. They splintered apart, spitting out thousands of diamond chains from a single seed. They crisscrossed each other, spinning out into a web. The ground fell away leaving Sam precariously balanced on a single threaded chain.

"You're not going to believe that bitch are you, Sammy?"

Sam spun around at the familiar voice, nearly losing his balance and falling to the black abyss beneath him. He caught himself, relying on his cat-like reflexes that had saved him so many times in the past.

"Dean," Sam gasped, and racking pain lacerated his heart. His brother was stretched spread-eagle over the abyss, suspended by chains that pierced his flesh at his belly, shoulder and thigh.

"No! This isn't right. It's not your time yet. You shouldn't be here. I'm going to save you."

Sam shifted his weight towards Dean, but the chain he stood on was the one which speared Dean through the belly. Dean winced at his movement, and Sam forced himself to be absolutely still. Sam tried to cry, but hot blowing wind scalded his eyes and dried up his tears.

"I don't know, Sammy. Maybe I'm not really here. Or maybe this is what's in store for me in the future. None of that matters now. What matters is that you believe in yourself."

Sam scrubbed his hands across his face, feeling sand scrap his raw skin. He held himself still, his hands over his eyes, blotting out everything but the darkness he created. The hum in his head was fading away and he could hear his thoughts again, but they did him more harm than good. They were evil thoughts, filled with bad memories and self-doubt. He dropped his hands, his eyes roving over Dean's torn body, and pale, bloodless face. Finally he met Dean's eyes, so green against the dark hollows of his face.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked tiredly, and he wondered how much longer he could sustain himself. How much longer before the desiccant molecules of his body just blew away into dust?

"Sammy, if you think the answer is water. Then it must be water. Believe in yourself and that monster brain of yours."

Sam hung his head, absorbing his brother's words. His entire life there had been one constant. Even when he had been away to college and he found Jess, there had still only been one voice in his head that he followed when he was backed in a corner. His brother's voice had led him out of more trouble than he cared to recount, and all he had to do was believe in it one last time.

The hum in his head expanded to an all-consuming roar that filled all the dark spaces in his head. It sang in his blood and rumbled his bones. It sealed him back up, gluing together all the cracks that were threatening to come undone. Renewed, he began to believe in himself.

He lifted his head, his eyes tear-bright for his brother's pain and their family's misery. Dean saw the moisture in his brother's eyes, and his full lips stretched into a weak smile.

"How?" asked Sam and Dean nodded.

"If you wanna reach the bottom, all you have to do is fall."

Sam smiled, loving his brother for who he was. There were no cryptic words or hidden meanings. Dean Winchester always said exactly what he meant. Sam nodded, and pitched sideways off the chain. The wind rush passed him as he fell through shadows and diamond dust. Time stretched on for eternity, and Sam may have nodded off for a few hours. Fire licked up from the bottom the pit, licking him with burning tongues, wrapping around him in a lover's caress.

The world opened up to a landscape of nightmare black, crimson-red and bitter orange, and Sam knew he had returned to the beginning. He landed on his feet, at the edge of the Devil's Bridge, Azazel standing where he left him.

Sam thought he heard the demon gasp, but he couldn't be certain over the roaring in his head. It was so loud he was certain that it must be leaking out his ears and pouring out his eyes. He stared straight into the demon's eyes, and determinedly placed one foot on the frozen fire bridge.

"No!" Azazel shouted, his tentacles lashing out.

Sam didn't recoil. He welcomed the claws as they pierced his skin, latching tightly beneath his flesh.

"Only one with infernal blood may cross the bridge."

Sam gripped the black tentacle tightly. It was surprisingly dry beneath his hand, the muscle rubbery and strong. He took another step onto the bridge, curling the tentacle up like a rope, looping it under his elbow and over his hand. The claw pulled at his side, trying to get away, but he held it tight, using its anchor in his flesh to his advantage.

"You should know, Yellow-Eyes. You made me what I am." He wound the tentacle tighter, pulling the demon closer until they stood together on the bridge only inches apart.

"But you don't control who I am," Sam finished through gritted teeth, winding up the last few inches between them.

The demon screeched and struggled, but it seemed to Sam that its strength was feeble compared to his. He peered through the dark smoke, passed the golden eyes to what ignited them from the inside.

"This isn't possible. You don't exist. You can't exist."

More tentacles, slammed into Sam's body, hooking him in soft places. He grunted in pain, and tacky blood ran down his legs to mingle on the ground at his feet. Instead of try to force him away, the demon was trying to devour him, pulling him into the smoky ruin of its body. Sam flowed into the demon, ignoring the hundreds of tiny mouths with needle teeth that latched onto him, chewing holes into his flesh. He delved his hands into the smoke, his fingers plucking at the demon's golden eyes, searching for something brighter, something hotter.

"I don't exist. Not yet. But that doesn't stop the fact that I know how to destroy you. That I'm going to end you, here and now."

The roar in Sam's head was deafening, escaping his skull. Something cool and wet splashed on his cheeks, and all at once he could hear the screams of the souls trapped in the molten lava flowing beneath the bridge.

Finally his questing fingers found what he was looking for. He cupped the bright ball of fire in the center of the swirling vortex of smoke. It sheared his palms, and charred his finger tips. He screamed with agony, but it was nothing compared to the demon's cries. Now with the demon's heart firmly trapped in his hands, Sam looked to the side where the screams of souls could be heard. In the distance, rushing down the ravine where the lava flowed was a tidal wave of cool blue water. Steam billowed up to the sky, washing away the black and red, until it streaked like muddy paint. Storm clouds formed, and sooty rain began to fall. Sluggish at first, then great sheets of it.

Sam turned back to the demon who was watching him with horrified yellow eyes that were dimming every passing moment.

"How?" The demon gasped, his smoky body dissipating slowly beneath the downpour of rain.

"I simply realized that all I needed to do was extinguish you," Sam intoned, merciless and god-like.

The tidal wave hit the bridge with the force of a thousand raging oceans. It shattered the bridge of orange glass, sweeping Sam and the demon down into its icy waves. As the water sucked them down, Sam released the fiery heart of the demon, watching as it pulsed brightly in the water, before extinguishing into an onyx ball that fell down dead into the depths of the ocean.

Water forced its way down Sam's mouth and into his nose. When he tried to breathe he only inhaled icy water that seized his lungs and froze his heart. He choked and tried to cough it out, but the water pulled on him, dragging him down into a watery grave.

His body jerked, and he lost all feeling in his feet and hands. The edges of his sight began to darken, and his last thoughts were of his brother.

Just as his eyes began to close, the face of a beautiful woman appeared in front of him. Her dark skin was radiant, her lips full and her eyes shining. With soft hands she cupped Sam's jaw, and leaned close to him, sealing her lush lips over his. She exhaled and air filled him, expanding his lungs and freeing his heart until he felt buoyed. He floated upwards, cradled in her arms, breathing her air until the breached the surface of the water.

Sam came awake with a start. He realized immediately that he was on his back, bare to the chest, lying on a soft pallet. To his left a fire crackled and he flinched, glancing at the tiny fireplace. He felt movement on the other side of him, and he looked up into exquisite brown eyes.

He stared at her for long moments, trying to remember where he was and what had happened. His brain scrambled for answers, his thoughts looping around until nothing made since. Finally he sighed, realizing how bone-weary exhausted he was.

"I think--I think I destroyed the yellow-eyed demon," his words were slurred, and his eyes were closing before he finished speaking.

The woman caressed his face with one hand, as she smiled down at him.

"Yes, Sam Winchester. You destroyed the demon."


	10. Chapter 10

A Christmas Miracle

Chapter Ten

"Daddy!"

Sam jerked awake on the comfortable couch he was reclining on to see two identical little girls with pretty blonde ringlets bounce across the room towards his brother who was sleeping on the floor beneath him. He tensed with expectation, knowing Dean was never gentle when awakened suddenly and the little girls who couldn't be more than five years-old where definitely getting ready to pounce on him like a couple of kittens with a ball of yarn.

They leapt, but Dean sat up suddenly meeting them head on and gathering them both up into his arms.

"Gotcha!" he yelled and the two girls dissolved into delighted giggles.

"Annabelle. Sarabeth. Momma said not to bother Dad and Uncle Sam. She said they would be tired after a night playing video games and carouseling." A small, but stern voice said from near the wooden double doors. Sam glanced over at a young boy whose spiky hair was just beginning to darken with adolescence.

"Carousing." Sam corrected automatically, and the boy nodded.

"Yah, that's what she said," they boy replied while looking pointedly at the multitude of beer bottles piled around the very comfortable looking den. On the wall across from the couch was a huge flat screen T.V. and Sam could see an X-Box hooked up beneath it. The carpet was a plush sage color and the plump couch he was laying was slightly darker. As he glanced around the room he could see signs of an all night gaming fest, potato chip bags, soda cans and beer laying everywhere.

"But it's Christmas morning and grandpa says we can't open presents until _everyone_ is awake!" One of the little girls whined and looked down at Dean with great big blue eyes. The second girl joined in, and even Sam felt the urge to buckle under such intense torture.

"Alright! Alright! We're up. Casey take your sisters into the front room. We'll be out in a second."

Sam glanced down at his brother. Though Dean's tone sounded even, Sam could see a hint of confusion behind his green eyes.

The girls squealed with happiness and rushed from the room. The solemn looking boy shoved his hands in his pants pockets and turned to follow them, a watchful eye on his sisters. He glanced back one last time, and Sam could see that he had Dean's green eyes before he slid the door closed.

Dean and Sam sat in silence for a moment, staring at nothing while they thought.

"That boy seems a little old to be yours. What is he? Ten?" Sam said conversationally, not able to broach the more pressing issue of what the hell was going on just yet.

"Yah. We got pregnant with him on Prom Night."

"We?"

"Yah, Roxy and me."

"You remember that?" Sam asked carefully, watching his brother.

Dean dropped his head and stared into his lap. He was still on the floor half propped up against the coach. Sam watched as his brow furrowed in thought.

"Yah, I can. I remember Roxanne was dressed in this frilly purple thing and she smelled like orchids. I remember being afraid to touch her she was so pretty." Dean paused, deep in thought before starting again. "But at the same time I remember standing up Daisy Mae at the shit high school I graduated from in Arizona because Dad and I were hunting a Chupracabra in the desert."

Sam looked away, absorbing Dean's revelation.

"I remember that fight Dad and I had when I went off to college." From the corner of his eye, Sam could see Dean nodded in remembrance.

"But I can remember us all piling into the car and driving cross country to California. You patted me on the back and Dad shook my hand and told me how proud he was. Mom cried nearly the entire time. She made my bed in the dorm and gave me a box of cookies and Dad had to wrap his arm around her shoulders and lead her out she was crying so hard."

"Oh my God! Mom!" The both shot up off the floor at the realization they had a whole lifetime of memories of their mother that hadn't been there before.

Dean reached the door first, and he slid it open glancing out into the hall as if he was expecting a monster to jump out at them. It was empty but there was a loud clatter of noise drifting down towards them along with rich smells of syrup and bacon. Carefully they walked towards the noise, Dean first, and Sam close on his heels watching his back. The hall opened up into a huge kitchen which was full of people. A dark-haired woman saw them first as she was pulling some salt down from the cupboard. She smiled at Dean her blue eyes dancing mischievously. She opened another cupboard and pulled out some white plastic bags, walking up to Dean with a playful frown on her face.

"Clean up that mess you and your brother made, Mister, before the kids get into it." She shoved the bags into Dean's hands before giving him a quick kiss on the lips. Sam caught the faint scent of flowers, but then she was gone asking Mary if she needed any help.

Dumbly they watched as an older woman with stylishly short blonde hair turned away from the sink to smile at Roxanne. Sam felt his heart plummet to his toes at the sight of the beautiful face he had memorized from photographs. Suddenly years of memories flooded his brain, fighting for dominance over the ones he had grown up with. As he stared at his mother, he could remember two lives. One filled with love and acceptance. One with petty fights and make-up ice cream. And another life filled with hardship and death. So full of pain and suffering that it begged to die out and become nothing more than a shadow in the back of his mind.

"Morning sleepy head." A small hand ruffled his hair from behind and he turned around, shocked to see Jess staring up at him.

"Jessica," he gasped.

"Samuel," she mocked back.

He ignored her, gathering her up into his arms and squeezing her tight. Reflexively she wound her arms around his neck, pulling herself even closer. He buried his face into the crook of her neck inhaling deeply, smelling sea salt and mangos.

"Sam? Are you okay?" Jess whispered, her arms tightening around his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second before regaining control of himself. Carefully he set her back down on her feet, smilingly down shakily at her.

"Yeah. I just had a bad dream."

Her slight frown melted away, and she smiled shyly up at him.

"Well, if you make it up to bed tonight I'll make sure you have good dreams."

He smiled at her and she returned it before skirting past them and out into the kitchen.

"Auntie Jess!" The girls piled into the kitchen followed by their ever watchful big brother. They surrounded Jess, jumping up and down to get her attention. She laughed and hugged them all, dragging them with her when Roxy shooed them from the kitchen.

Sam and Dean melted into the background returning to the den where they had spent the night. Dean handed Sam a bag, snapping his open and began stuffing trash into it. Sam followed suit, his mind racing as fast as it could go.

"You think it's a Djinn?" he asked.

"No. I didn't have memories of my new life, just the old one."

Sam absorbed that, moving around the room.

"Maybe it's more advanced."

"Maybe. But I had memories of the Djinn. Of hunting it. Do you remember us hunting one?"

"No, I remember dinner at Missouri's, the portal and then running from the jailhouse." Sam trailed off his brow furrowing. He was having a tough time remembering what happened after that.

He looked up when he heard the loud clatter of beer bottles hitting the floor. Dean had dropped his garbage bag and was stalking over to him his face a mask of intensity. His brother reached him and tore open his button down shirt, searching his chest and back thoroughly.

"Dude, what are you doing? You tore my shirt. It's Jess's favorite."

"You were shot. Back there, in the West. You were shot in the back and I had to leave you with Missouri."

"What are you talking about? Missouri?"

"It's a long story. The point is. You aren't shot anymore. As a matter of fact." Dean trailed off, sliding his hand down Sam's side.

"Dude!" Sam shimmied away, pulling his shirt back onto his shoulders while giving his brother the stop-freaking-me-out look.

"You don't have any scars."

Sam frowned at Dean, his brow furrowing. Slowly he turned his back to his brother and opened his shirt, looking for the slash marks from the razor claws of a Banshee that had been a part of him for ten years. His side was smooth and unmarked. He quickly checked for his numerous other scars and found them gone. He glanced back and Dean when he was done, noticing that his brother had done the same thing and from the look on his face he had gotten the same result.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam tried to keep the freaked-out tone from his voice but he wasn't very successful.

Dean sunk down on the couch, an elbow braced on his knees, the heel of his hand jammed into his eye.

"Back in the Old West, the demon Shalor was trying to summon was Ole Yellow Eyes. I think that was his first entrance into our world. I think that's when he got here. I killed him. Put a bullet from the Colt right through his heart before he could hurt anyone. Before he could start his demon baby shit."

Sam sunk down onto the couch next to his brother and stared sightlessly at the empty black screen of the TV. Images of fire and water flashed through his mind, accompanied by a faint buzzing but it quickly faded away.

"So you think we changed the course of history? Do you think we changed our fate?" Sam whispered in a voice so low that Dean could barely hear him.

Dean shot up from his seat and began to pace furiously in front of Sam. He swiped his hand through his hair, and Sam noted absently it was longer than usual.

"Look, this is what I know. I remember everything from before. Every hunt. Every death. Everything. But I also remember getting married and you standing up as my best man. I remember the huge fight I had with Mom and Dad when they found out Roxy was pregnant. I remember being in the room with her when she gave birth to our kids."

He paused looking down at Sam.

"I know that Mom is alive and a teacher at the elementary school. I know that Dad built up his garage until it became a chain in three states. I know that Roxy is the best wife and mother I could ever hope for and that I own the top classic car rebuilding business in the Midwest."

"I know these things, Sam. And they are real to me. They are as real to me as everything else we have ever been through. "

Sam nodded in agreement. He remembered all those thing and more. He remembered getting accepted to Stanford. He remembered meeting Jess and falling in love with her. He knew that he was in law school and only home for the holidays and that Jess was in her second year of medical school. He knew all those things, just like he knew that ghosts really did exist and there were monsters in the dark. All those things were real, including his brand new second life.

"What if it's a trick? What if it's a lie and we are hanging like rotten meat in a warehouse somewhere?" A painful pressure was building in Sam's chest and no matter how deep a breath he took it just wouldn't go away.

Childish laughter erupted from the other room, and Dean stared longingly at the door. Slowly, he stared down at Sam, his bright green eyes filled with years of torment and sadness.

"I don't think I care, Sam. I don't think I have the strength to pull myself out this time. I don't think I want to. I _want _this. I want this to be real. I want this to be our life."

He squatted down in front of Sam, dropping his hand on top of his loosely laced ones. Sam looked up, revealing the tears that were sliding down his face. He watched as Dean swallowed hard, a single tear escaping his closed mask.

"I want it too, Dean," Sam whispered, and something broke free inside of him. The pain loosened in his chest and acceptance flooded through him.

Dean wrapped a hand around the back of his head, pulling him closer so their brows could meet. They stared down at the floor between their feet, tears falling unashamedly.

"I don't think we will ever get over the feeling that this is all a lie. The fear our bodies are dying somewhere. But if this is all just a beautiful dream, then I want to reveal in it. I want to savor it until the very end."

Sam nodded, the skin of his forehead brushing against Dean's.

"Yah. Me too."

Dean's hand tightened around Sam's neck before he shot to his feet. He quickly wiped his face with his arm and nervously picked up the garbage bag to finish his task. Sam sat still on the couch, barely noticing the movements around him. When Dean was finished he grabbed up both bags and headed for the door.

"Dean!"

Dean paused and looked back at Sam who was staring up at him wide-eyed from the couch.

"What if it isn't a dream? What if all this is real?"

Dean smiled then. It was a beautiful smile. A smile Sam hadn't seen since they were young children. Sam could feel his own smile blossom on his face and it was filled with so much joy and happiness it felt like it was going to spill out from every pore in his body.

Sam stood up from the couch and together they walked out into their new life.

**EPILOGUE:**

Sam and Dean spent the day hugging their family. John was there with his booming voice, sweeping his grandchildren into the air. His scars were gone leaving behind deep lines around his eyes mouth from smiling his way through life. Mary chided him gently, her blue eyes sparkling as she tried to feed her children who were all too skinny for her taste. Roxanne and Jessica sat on the couch side by side, laughing and sharing secrets behind their hands.

The day was full of excitement and the children fell into an exhausted sleep early. John led the adults into the dining area and was breaking out a worn deck of cards and a few poker chips. Sam and Dean were left behind again, good-naturedly accepting the duty of scouring the floor for twisty ties and bits of plastic that needed to be cleaned up.

As they shoved crumbled wrapping paper into plastic bags, Sam discovered one last present beneath the tree, shoved far back in the corner by the wall. He pulled it out, a sick twist spreading through his stomach.

"Dean."

Recognizing Sam's tone as being trouble, Dean dropped his bag and hurried over to Sam. The present was innocuous. Rectangular and wrapped in green and red paper, it was obviously a clothing box. There was no tag, only black marker with their names scrawled on top of it.

"Isn't this one of the presents Missouri gave to us when we were leaving?" Dean asked quietly and Sam nodded.

Carefully he tore the paper away, revealing a white wardrobe box. He opened it, his eyes widening in surprise when he found two handmade sweaters. The large one, obviously made for Sam was green with prancing reindeer stretched across the front. The second one was red with a line of pine trees across the chest.

They pulled them out of the box to look at them, identical expressions of confusion on their faces. A simple piece of lined paper fluttered to their feet and Sam hurriedly picked it up.

_May the dreams of your past be the reality of your future._

_Missouri_

Sam stared long and hard at the paper and Dean shifted beside him.

"Do you think she knew?" Sam asked softly.

Dean thought about his meeting with the Missouri of the past and her daughter Kansas. How she had waited almost ten years to save them from the corrupt lawmen of Lawrence. How in order to save the life of her child she had made a deal with an _angel_ to save them before they were even born.

"Yah, I think she knew. I think she's always known."

"This is real isn't it, Dean?"

Dean took the paper from Sam's hand, looking it over grimly. Given the choice of what was and what could be, he chose the reality of this future.

"This is real, Sam." Dean intoned steadily, before crumbling up the paper and throwing it into the crackling fireplace.

Sam watched the paper shrivel and blacken, remembering a river of lava and skies of bitter honey. He nodded in acceptance, smiling at his brother as their past burned away into charred pieces of nothing.

FINISHED


End file.
